


My Demons Are Here

by thatawkwardfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF John, Blow Jobs, Crying John, Dancing, Declarations Of Love, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, Drunk first kiss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Fighting, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Garridebs reference, Hurt John, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John saving Sherlock, John's Scar, Lots of Angst, Lots of dancing, M/M, Making Out, Miscommunication, Party, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Pool scene, Recovery, Rimming, Slow Burn, Smut, Top John, Top Sherlock, Truth or Dare, Villain!Mary, faithfully by journey, fight and makup, hand holding, switch lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 15:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8629468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatawkwardfriend/pseuds/thatawkwardfriend
Summary: John moves back in with Sherlock, but an ominous threat from Mary keeps him from finally pursuing a relationship with him. Through dinner parties, dancing, and domestic nights in, he tries his best to distance himself from Sherlock to keep him safe, but as fate would have it, nothing can stop them from inevitably being pulled back together.





	1. Chapter 1

It started off as a simple gesture in the backseat of a cab.

John and Sherlock were on their way to see Mycroft. He had sent out for all information available on Mary and wished to go over it with them, as well as look at the hard drive she had left John. Afterwards, he would advise them on how to proceed.

John nervously ran his palms down his thighs wiping the sweat off of them. He was terrified. He had almost lost Sherlock for the second time not even a week ago. His wife was a murderous assassin. And he was about to find out who she really was. The woman he had married. The woman who was carrying his child. The woman who had shot Sherlock and gotten away with it.

He gripped his knees and breathed in heavily through his nose. Closing his eyes and exhaling through his mouth, he tried to calm himself down.

He then felt long, slender fingers slip under the hand he had resting on his knee. They interlocked with his fingers and squeezed gently.

John opened his eyes and stared down at his and Sherlock’s joined hands. This is… unprecedented. Sherlock didn’t like to be touched, so to think that he’d be holding his hand to comfort him was quite baffling. If someone had told him that Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, would do such a thing he’d laugh and call them bonkers. But here they are, with Sherlock looking slightly unsure and sure at the same time.

Without words, Sherlock had told him that he was there and that everything would be alright.

It comforted him immensely to know that he would be there with him the whole time. And that he would be by his side through this mess. This simple gesture reminded him of that, and caused his anxiety about the meeting to instantly vanish.

He noticed how perfectly their hands fit together, too. It felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted off his chest and the icy boundary that had been between them since the wedding had melted away.

Without looking at Sherlock, he squeezed back and turned to stare out the window. Neither spoke or let go for the rest of the ride. 

*****

The second incident happened on a case.

John had gotten back together with Mary at the suggestion of Mycroft. He had to keep his baby safe as well as Sherlock. There was no guaranteeing she wouldn’t try to kill him again if he left her.

Still, although he was unhappy, he didn’t let it affect their relationship.

The two of them sprinted down the streets after a killer they’d been tracking for weeks.

“Lestrade, he’s about to turn the corner of Main Street. We need back up,” Sherlock huffed into his phone.

The man turned a sharp corner into an alley instead. They nearly skidded and crashed over each other trying to follow. John regained his footing first and darted into the alley.

They had expected the killer had continued to run, but instead, he was lurking in the dark waiting for him. He shoved John up against the wall. Before he could fight back, he grabbed a fistful of his hair and smashed it into the brick.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, appearing the alley, but the killer was already running off.

John’s vision went hazy as he slumped down against the wall. Sherlock kneeled by him, allowing the man to dark around the other side of the building and escape.

“John, are you alright?”

“My head,” he moaned.

“It’s alright.” He guided John’s bleeding head into his lap just as Scotland Yard turned into the alley with flashlights in hand.

“What happened? Where’d he go?” Lestrade called, jogging up beside them

Sherlock couldn’t answer. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against John’s. He rocked back and forth, stroking his face with his thumbs.

“John,” he repeated in whispers. “John.”

Lestrade sent his crew off to chase the killer, but stayed back himself. He watched Sherlock embrace John so softly, so tenderly, almost like a lover. He scratched the back of his head uncomfortably, no doubt thinking of Mary and what she would think were she to see this.

John was alright. He knew he was. It probably looked a lot worse than it actually was.

“I’m okay, Sherlock.” he croaked. He might have a mild concussion, he assessed, but no major damage done. Sherlock pushed his fringe out of his face and dropped a quick kiss onto his forehead.

Instead of pushing him away, John lifted his hand and cupped the back of his head, pushing their foreheads back together.

They remained like that until Lestrade forced Sherlock to lift him up, and helped the two of them into a cab.

“We can take it from here. Go get some rest.” 

 

The three of them never brought it up again.

 

*****

The third incident happened months later in the kitchen of 221B.

He was seeing Sherlock less and less. His performances at work were subpar at best. And he was a terrified father-to-be. His stomach churned every time he remembered that in a few months, Mary would give birth to a baby that would tie them together forever. He was often tired, cranky, and just all around miserable. The little time he was able to spend with Sherlock was often rushed, icy, and awkward. 

 

He, Sherlock, and Mary were sitting in the living room discussing their latest case. Mary insisted on being included in their work more often, much to John’s annoyance Their conversations were short and choppy. Mary was throwing off their dynamic and they all knew it.

John did most of the talking, trying to maintain the peace between the three of them. Though no matter how hard they all tried, the conversations would inevitably fade off into a stony silence until someone piped up and restarted the cycle.

Suddenly, Sherlock dismissed himself to make tea for the three of them. John noticed that something was off in the way he had launched out of his chair and retreated to the kitchen. He offered to help and followed him, leaving Mary alone to be entertained by the television.

In the kitchen, he and Sherlock stood with their backs facing each other, one getting the cream and sugar, the other getting the cups and kettle. John reached up into the cabinets and pulled out three mugs. His back prickled with the feeling of someone standing close, and he turned to find himself face-to face with Sherlock, their noses nearly touching.

Sherlock caged him in against the counter. Their chests were pressed together, their noses and foreheads touching. Neither looked the other in the eye, but rather gazed down at each other’s lips. Neither dared to break the delicate silence by speaking. They simply stood there like that…. Breathing…. Waiting…

Their chests rose and fell together in sync. John didn’t push him away, nor did he want to. They were both no doubt thinking of that day in the alley some weeks back, where their foreheads were pressed up against each other in a similar manner. Neither of them had brought up what had happened since then. Nor had Lestrade, the only witness to the encounter. But it had lingered over them ever since, in every glance, every touch, every word.

Their lips hovered dangerously close, and they were both well aware of it.

He could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his face, as well as their combined heart beats racing against each other. The air was electrified with the heat between them in that moment and neither dared to break it.

“Are you two done in there?” Mary called.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s, his pupils blown wide, his gaze pinning him to the spot. John realized he was waiting for him to make the next move. His devilish eyes dared him to break away, escape from between his arms, to reply to Mary.

“John?” Mary called.

“Er, yeah,” John croaked back, his eyes back on Sherlock’s lips hovering over his. He cleared his throat. “Coming.”

Sherlock removed his arms from the counter and stepped back only slightly. John still had to push past him to make his way back to the living room empty handed.

He sat back in his chair and refused to meet Mary’s eye.

“Sherlock will be bringing the tea in a second.” he said. After a few, long minutes, Sherlock served them tea and relaxed back in his chair. He proceeded to discuss the case calmly, while John kept his reddened, scalding hot face down, not saying a word the rest of the time.

*****

It was these three encounters with Sherlock that had John rethinking everything after Mary’s miscarriage. 

Over the past several months, he had truly convinced himself he could rebuild his life with Mary. Forget her past. Raise their child. Move on. If he was stuck with her, might as well at least try to be happy.

But once the baby was no longer in the picture, he couldn’t help feeling more relieved than he should have. He no longer had a child tying him to Mary indefinitely. The guilt of feeling relieved at this ate away at him every night. This was his baby, he told himself. He should be heartbroken over this.

However, he knew deep down, he never would have wanted to condemn a child to a life with unhappily married parents, one of whom could kill them any day if she pleased. But now that the baby was gone, he realized how badly he had been manipulating himself these past months. He wasn’t happy with Mary, and he never would be.

Could he go back to Baker Street now even if he wanted too? Would Sherlock have him back? Was he angry with him for not reaching out for so long? Did he miss him too? Did he also stay up at night thinking of that day in the taxi, that night in the alley, that afternoon in the kitchen?

At least, these were the questions keeping John up as he tossed and turned every night. He had known for a long time he was in love with Sherlock. Probably had been since they met. But never once did he ever think Sherlock might return those feelings. He had told him so on their first case. Sherlock didn’t do relationships. End of story.

So then what was that day in the kitchen all about? What were all the lingering stares? Why hadn’t they been able to maintain their close friendship after John got back with Mary?

The endless uncertainty of Sherlock’s feelings for him chipped away at his sanity day by day, but he never left. He couldn’t face Sherlock again after so long until he had figured things out. 

It wasn’t until he saw a text from “M” appear on Mary’s phone one day that he changed his mind. He glanced at her phone as he passed by and his eyes widened in shock. She snatched it out of his view quick enough and rushed to a different room to reply, but the damage was done. She knew he had seen it.

“M.” That could only be one person. If Mary was in direct contact with Moriarty, he couldn’t stay here. To hell with second chances. They were done.

Once again relieved that they had been spared bringing a child into this world, he made his decision to pack up and leave once Mary had fallen asleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

John timidly raised his fist and lowered it for the fourth time.

He just couldn’t chase off the wrenching feeling in his chest that Sherlock wouldn’t welcome him back.

_Cut it out,_ he told himself. _Of course he’ll have you back. What, do you think he’ll just turn you away? No._

He knocked firmly three times. He waited a minute and knocked again. No one came. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was out? He reached out and gave the door handle an experimental tug. It was unlocked.

Of course it was.

He hauled his two stuffed duffel bags up the stairs with great difficulty. He could hear Sherlock screeching away at his violin on the other side of the door. This wasn’t one of his usual soft, sweet melodies. This was sporadic and quick. John could tell he was thinking very hard through something.

God he missed this.

He knocked softly at the door and waited. The violin screeched to a sudden, angry halt.

“Enter.”

He peeked his head inside. Sherlock was facing the window in his blue dressing gown, the violin perched on his shoulder. His dark, ravenous curls were wild and tousled, as if he had been pulling at them in frustration. He stood with his back to John, looking out into the darkness of the night outside. The yellow light from the lamp cast a soft, warm aura around him. He seemed to almost glow in it. 

A warm feeling blossomed in John’s chest at the sight. His heart fluttered at the thought that he was finally returning home. He dragged his duffel bags inside and cleared his throat.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

He could see the shift in his demeanor. Just a slight stiffening of posture. A guarded stance.

“John,” he greeted curtly without turning to look at him.

“I, uh. I was wondering if, you know. If I could . . .” he trailed off, unable to finish for fear of rejection.

Sherlock finally turned around and took in his sleepless, baggy eyes, his unchanged daytime clothes, and most importantly, the bags at his feet. Immediately, his demeanor softened. He set the violin down and rushed forward to help him with his bags.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. So it’s alright then? If I . . .”

“Yes, of course. You’re always welcome here, John. You know that, right?” 

“Yes.” John shook his head at his doubt from earlier. He was being ridiculous. “Yeah, I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes bore down into him. The _‘So why haven’t you ever come to see me before?’_ went unspoken. John broke the eye contact. He couldn’t face it. Instead, he went to set his things upstairs.

There was a fine layer of dust on top of every surface in his room. No one had cleaned it. Everything appeared to have gone completely untouched in the months he was away. Except the bed, he noticed. The sheets were clean and slightly ruffled, as if recently slept in.

John dumped his bags on the bed and headed back downstairs. Once in the living room, he found that Sherlock had prepared two cups of tea and had started the fire.

A warm rush of affection washed over him as he sat in his chair - oh, how he had missed his chair - across from Sherlock and took a sip.

They sat in comfortable silence. Just like old times, he thought.

He asked him about what cases he had tackled in his absence and listened to him retell his adventures with glee. There were several, he noticed with a slight pang. He had missed out on much more of Sherlock’s life than he realized.

“What about you, then?” Sherlock asked after finishing his tales.

John raised a brow at him, caught off-guard by the sudden inquiry. “Me?”

“Why now?”

Realizing he was referring to how long it’s been since John has visited him, his stomach sank. All his joy from being back home with Sherlock was instantly replaced with sickened twist in his gut at the indirect mention of Mary. John didn’t want to talk about her just yet. Perhaps in the morning, but not now.

He sighed and placed his cup down.

“Actually, you know what? I think I’m going to turn in.”

“Oh?” Sherlock hummed, looking slightly disappointed in John’s eyes, but maybe that was just sleep deprivation.“Oh, yes, alright then. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

Up in his bedroom, John lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Just this past hour with Sherlock had made him realize how much he had missed him. How could he have let their friendship slip through his fingers? That was to be remedied immediately. He was here to stay. They’d find their way again. He was sure of it.

And who knew? Once the ice was broken and they fell back into their usual routine, who’s to say they couldn’t take things a step further now? With Mary out of his life, their future was full of opportunity. Sherlock had definitely shown interest. All he had to do was return the advances, and see where things took them.

John’s stomach fluttered at the mere thought of it. All those years of longing, waiting, and repressing his feelings, it could very well all be worth it . . .very soon.

*****

Sherlock was already gone when John came downstairs the next morning. Most likely on a case, he figured.

Hang on, he thought. Why didn’t Sherlock invite him along now that he was back? It wasn’t that he didn’t want to wake him. Sherlock had woken him for cases at god awful hours of the night before without a second thought.

On the table, he saw that he had left a platter of breaded cookies with a pitcher of milk.

Sherlock had left him breakfast? What was-

Anger boiled in his stomach as he came to his conclusion. When Sherlock returned from his case, he would most certainly make it crystal clear to him that he did not need to be coddled like this.

What, did he think he was too weak and fragile to attend cases now? Did he think he was too out of practice and would not be able to keep up? Did he think he was so unable to take care of himself that he needed breakfast prepared and served to him on a platter?

When he got home, John would tell him he did not appreciate being excluded from cases like this now that he was back, and he most certainly didn’t need breakfast to be made for him.

He stormed past the table and settled into his chair instead. Sherlock hadn’t even sent a text that he would be gone, John thought disappointedly. Perhaps their relationship was more broken than he realized.

John’s phone rang in his pocket. He fished it out in a hurry, hoping it was Sherlock only to be disappointed: Unknown number. He answered anyway.

His heart stopped cold at the voice he heard.

“So I suppose there’s no point in making any attempt to get you to come back.” Mary’s voice was cold, not the warm and sweet woman he’d married but the assassin who had almost killed his best friend.

“No. I wouldn’t bother.”

He got a deep, disappointed sigh in return. Like a mother dealing with a stubborn child. 

“Everything I ever did was so that I wouldn’t lose you, John. Everything.” The quiver in her voice didn’t fool him anymore, she was - above all - a liar.

“You shot Sherlock.”

“It was all for you. To keep you safe.”

“You’ve done nothing but make me miserable.” John’s voice dripped with venom as he practically snarled into the phone. “You’re the worst thing that could have ever possibly happened to me.”

“Look, I’m not an idiot, John. After what happened I knew you were only staying with me for the baby. And now that it’s out of the way I have no hold over you. Now you’re free to rebuild your life with Sherlock. I get it.”

John recoiled at the way she described her miscarriage as the baby being “out of the way.”

He was relieved at the miscarriage because it allowed him to escape a toxic relationship. End of story. Under other circumstances he would have loved a child in his life. Mary only wanted the baby as a tool to control him. John’s stomach churned at the reveal of how she really felt about their unborn daughter. She would have been a terrible mother to her and John was now even more relieved that she would never have to be raised in their household.

“John, let me remind you of who I am. I am an intelligence agent and an experienced assassin. If you think you can get away with spitting in my face like this, then frankly, you’re an idiot. I can make you suffer. I have killed and will kill again. And John,” She paused, her voice lower and crueler than he’d heard her speak before. “You do not want to be on my bad side.”

John’s blood ran cold in his veins as images of Sherlock in the ambulance flashed before his eyes. The dark pool of blood staining the front of his shirt. The beeping of the heart monitor steadily slowing to a flat line. Sherlock’s eyes rolling in the back of his head. His lips and face paling to a ghostly white.

He clenched his fist as a bead of cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He could feel adrenaline flooding through his body. The memory caused his heart rate to rise alarmingly. He took a deep breath, calming himself down.

At the sound of his near-panic attack, Mary chuckled. Blind rage boiled in his stomach as his wife made light of almost killing the man he loved. “So…” She continued. “Last chance, John. You can come back to me or face what’s yet to come.”

“Go to hell,” he growled lowly. Mary barked out a cruel, high-pitched laugh.

“Oh, John,” she said, sounding amused. “You may have thought the baby my only hold on you. But let me remind you I’m still working for Moriarty. I’ve got things to do for him as well as my own little mission to carry out now.”

“What mission would that be?” John kept his voice low and dangerous, refusing to let her take the upper hand in this conversation so easily.

She paused. John could almost see her tilting her head at him.

“Moriarty and I have a job to do,” she stated simply. “So I would advise you and Sherlock to not get too . . . _comfortable_ in your lives together.”

John could very clearly see her knowing smirk. She knew why he had left her. More specifically she knew what he had left her for, and what he wanted in his new life with Sherlock.

“Oh please, John, I’m not an idiot,” she repeated with a condescending edge in her voice after he had been silent too long. “You were drooling over than man even when he was dead.” The laugh in her voice was almost pitiful. She thought he was pathetic.

John’s heart hammered at the reminder of how much he talked about his past life with Sherlock in the two years he was gone.

 

“What . . . job?” he asked, desperately scrambling to change the subject. He hated his voice for finally cracking, giving him away.

She chuckled again, fully aware of what he was doing.

“Moriarty can make Sherlock dance like a puppet, John. You know he can. He can make him do anything he wants just by pulling the right strings. He can make him hurt himself, Mrs. Hudson . . .or even you.”

“You’re a liar,” John spat, completely disgusted at her suggestion that Sherlock would ever intentionally hurt him. Or any of their friends. As for hurting himself, he now knew Sherlock had sacrificed himself to save him, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Mary knew it, too. He knew she did. She was just trying to get a rise out of him. Or possibly plant doubt in his mind about what kind of person Sherlock actually was.

No. He wasn’t going to allow her to manipulate him anymore. He forced her toxic, twisted words out of his mind.

“You’re wrong,” he said, practically panting with fury. The heat rose up through his body and reached his face. “And we’re not scared of you or Moriarty. There’s nothing you can do to us.”

Mary let out a puff of breath in amusement. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

John simply remained silent, breathing heavily and hating that she was right. The two of them could easily turn their lives upside down. They had both done it before separately. Together, they would be unlike anything they’d ever imagined or faced. 

“It could have been the two of us, you know,” she continued. “I could have kept you safe from Moriarty. But you chose Sherlock. You chose wrong and you will pay for it and that’s your fault.”

Anxiety raised in John’s chest at her threat. At least previously she had tried to keep her malicious intentions subtle. Her sudden switch to being so direct and vicious towards him sent an ominous shiver down his neck.

“I don’t need you to keep me safe.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not finished. Giving you a little puzzle to solve and making your lives a dangerous, chaotic hell is Moriarty’s job. I want to make you suffer a different way. A more, well, _personal_ way. So know this, John. If you and Sherlock ever get together, ever . . .I will kill him,” she murmured, sounding unnervingly like Moriarty. “I don’t care what Moriarty’s orders are. I will surely and absolutely kill him and finish him off this time. Let there be no doubt about that, John. I will. Kill. Him.”

John’s anxiety spiraled out of control as he struggled to control his breathing. The memory of Sherlock lying on the floor of Magnussen’s office with blood spilling from his chest flashed in his mind before he shut it out.

He wondered, what was in it for her? Why would she want to kill him or prevent them from being together? She knew she could never have him back either way.

With an uneasy pang in his chest, he realized that she meant to keep him in a state of eternal longing: allowing him to be with Sherlock but not be with Sherlock. The only alternative being a life without him at all. It was the worst punishment.

“Why are you doing this?” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper now.

“Moriarty’s mission is to burn the heart out of Sherlock,” she said softly in reply. “And mine is to burn the heart out of you.”


	3. Chapter 3

John hung up the phone and slowly lowered into a chair at the kitchen table. Cold sweat pooled at his temple and slid down his pale white face. He placed his head in his hands and released a shuddering breath.

Once his heart had returned to a normal, steady beat, he evaluated his options: He could tell Sherlock what was going on. He always knew what to do and could help him out of this.

Then John remembered that Moriarty had once bugged their flat with cameras and had broken in several times. If John breathed a word to Sherlock, she would undoubtedly know. In fact, she’s probably been tracking their every action since Sherlock came back.

He couldn’t try to have a secret relationship with Sherlock either. Mary would instantly figure that out too. Like she said, she’s not an idiot. She really has him backed into a tight corner and she knew it. No wonder she was so smug.

John shook his head. No, he thought. He refused to let Mary play him like this. He would do what he needed to do to keep Sherlock safe, but no more than that. He wouldn’t let her drive them apart. He and Sherlock could still be as close as they once were. He could handle that.

Besides, even if he did take the plunge in initiating a romantic relationship with Sherlock, who knew if he would accept? Maybe John had just been imagining things these past few months and he really wasn’t interested after all. Perhaps this was for the better. Maybe Mary was just saving him from an inevitable heartbreak.

John heard familiar footsteps climbing the stairs. With a pang he remembered how Sherlock had left him that morning. Not even bothering to ask him along on a case. Coddling him. Treating him like he was weak and in need of pampering. He pushed all thoughts of Mary aside and stood to face Sherlock entering through the opening door.

“Where the hell have you been?!” he barked. Sherlock looked back at him confused.

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Why would you not ask me to come along?” Sherlock stood with a gaping mouth, but didn’t interrupt. “You’ve never left me out of a case before. You know I would’ve wanted to help.”

Sherlock simply pouted at the floor like a child being scolded by his parents. Since he remained silent, John continued. He knew he was somewhat channeling his anger at Mary towards him, but he didn’t care at the moment.

“What, you think leaving my wife has left me so shattered I couldn’t be bothered to get out for a bit and help? You think you need to treat me like a child? Bringing me breakfast as if I can’t take care of that myself?”

Sherlock’s pout deepened but he still didn’t respond. He continued staring at the floor, never once meeting John’s eye, with his hands clasped uncomfortably in front of him. The beginnings of tears seemed to be welling up in his eyes.

The more John yelled, the angrier he got. All his built up rage spilled out before he could stop himself.

“I’m not your patient, Sherlock, and I’m not a fragile little flower that you need to keep at home to protect.”

Sherlock didn’t move as John aggressively brushed past him, the breeze making him sway slightly on the spot. His eyes were definitely wet.

John grabbed his coat and stormed out the door leaving Sherlock rooted to the spot, head down, not having uttered a word in response. Part of him knew he was overreacting, but sometimes Sherlock needed to be told off.

He thought about the growing wetness in Sherlock’s eyes as he had yelled, but shook it off. He knew Sherlock would be fine. He’d taken a scolding from him before, just not anytime recently. He would get over it, but right now John needed some fresh air and time alone.

He thumped down the stairs and nearly ran into Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, John!”

“Mrs. Hudson! Sorry about that. I was just heading out.”

“Hello, dear. Oh, I’m just so pleased that you’ve moved back in. Sherlock is, too.”

John nearly scoffed in reply but kept his expression pleasant, for her sake.

“Did Sherlock send you for the muffins? I thought he wanted to keep it a surprise.”

“The . . . sorry, what?”

“The poppy seed muffins Sherlock and I have been baking! He said they were your favorite. I’m afraid they’re not done yet, dear.”

John’s heart halted abruptly in his chest. She and Sherlock have . . . what?

“Wait, sorry. So Sherlock wasn’t . . . on a case?”

“Oh, no dear. We wanted to do something special for your first morning back. I offered to do it for him, but you know how he is - so stubborn.” She chuckled fondly. “He insisted on doing it all by himself. Took quite a few tries, might I add.” She dropped her voice to a whisper as if sharing a dirty secret. “He’s really not the best with baking.”

“Right,” he absent-mindedly agreed. Poppy seed muffins? He remembered he had off-handedly mentioned years ago that those were indeed his favorite. He couldn’t believe Sherlock had remembered such a small detail about him.

Oh god, he thought, running a hand through his hair. Guilt crashed into him as he thought how brutally he had treated Sherlock not two minutes ago.

“But anyway,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “After a few hours he finally managed to put together a decent batch! They’re in the oven now. We finished the cookies a little bit ago, too. He already sent those up, I believe.” She seemed to realize she had been rambling and cut herself off. “I hope you’ll be back soon, dear. I’ll be coming upstairs with the muffins in about half an hour with some tea.”

“Right, yes. Actually I’ve got to um… sorry,” he stumbled and turned to go back up to the flat. He had to apologize to Sherlock immediately. God, he was awful to him.

He lept up the stairs, two at a time, his face reddened by shame. He yanked the door open just in time to hear Sherlock’s bedroom door shut quietly. He could practically hear the sulking going on on the other side.

John slumped against the door, the blazing hot guilt ripping through his chest. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time.

His return to Baker Street was most certainly not going as expected.

*****

John tossed violently in his bed.

Shots fired around his head. Several men fell to the ground around him. Someone hollered over the shots to take cover in a nearby trench.

He panted heavily laying on his back. Sweat pooled around the neckline of his shirt.

He looked back and saw one of his comrades limping along, trying to reach the trench. He would never make it on his own. Before John could help, he pushed him into the trench, falling forward on his injured leg. “NO!” John tried to scream, but no sound came out.

“No,” he moaned, tossing his head from side to side on his pillow.

The violent explosion blasted all around him, and his comrade was blown into bits right outside the trench. John lowered his head as the scorching heat surrounding him seared into his skin.

Once it was over, he looked up and saw what remained of his friend: a lifeless lump wearing a Belstaff coat with a crack in his head. Blood poured from the crack like a waterfall and gathered in a scarlet pool around him.

“No… Sherlock,” John moaned again, much louder this time.

He tried making his way to his friend, pushing past several people on the sidewalk outside of Bart’s. When they finally parted, he got a full, unobscured view of the dead body in front of him.

Sherlock lay pale-faced with his mouth hanging open, his head completely cracked in two clean halves. Dark blood pooled around him and spilled from his eye sockets and gaping mouth. His lifeless eyes remained wide open and stared at him accusingly.

“It’s your fault,” chanted the surrounding voices. They closed around him once again, pulling him away from Sherlock.

“No!” he yelled, reaching his arm out.

“It’s your fault,” they repeated as Sherlock’s body was completely blocked from his view.

“SHERLOCK!” John bellowed at the top of his lungs as he bolted up in his bed. The afterimage of Sherlock’s cracked, bloody head lingered in his vision.

“Sher . . .” he panted as he gulped a lungful of air. The entire front of his shirt dripped in sweat. He leaned his head back and tried to steady his breathing.

He saw the outside light flick on underneath the door followed by a pattering of feet running up the stairs.

“John?” came a familiar, deep voice right outside the door. A voice he had never been more relieved to hear. A voice that meant comfort, safety, home.

“Yeah,” John breathed just loud enough for him to hear. He exhaled heavily and closed his eyes. The door creaked open just enough for Sherlock to peak his head inside.

“What happened? Are you alright?” he asked as he made his way to John’s bedside.

“M’fine. Just a nightmare.”

“Ah.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose as his breath continued to come in shuddering gasps. Sherlock stood at his bedside with his hands clasped in front of him, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. 

“You alright?” he asked again.

“Fine . . . I just . . .” The voices chanting “It’s your fault” rang in his ears accompanied by the memory of Sherlock’s bloody head, and he finally broke.

He released a single soft sob as quietly as he could, even though he knew his friend standing at his bedside could full well hear him.

“John?” said the concerned voice softly. But he couldn’t reply. He continued to rub his face in an attempt to contain the tears. Maybe if he just ignored Sherlock he would leave. That’s what he was expecting after the way he treated him today.

So it came as a surprise when he felt a dip in the bed next to him and a large hand carding through his hair.

“Lie back, John.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He laid down and tried to relax as Sherlock stroked gently through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock” John whispered through his hands. He peeked one eye open and saw he was confused.

“For earlier. For yelling at you. I had no idea-”

“It’s alright. Don’t worry.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed. I know you would never-”

“Shut up, John. It doesn’t matter. Just forget it.” He spoke gently as his hand continued to soothe him.

_It did matter though,_ John thought. Sherlock had done something kind for him and he spat in his face. Now here he was in comforting him in the middle of the night.

“Tell me what happened.”

He nudged John so he would scoot over and make room for him. After they both settled in, leaning back against the headboard, John retold his dream.

He recounted how his comrade had been injured and couldn’t escape the explosion in time. And instead of allowing John to help him, he had sacrificed himself to save his life. Then his friend’s dead body had morphed into Sherlock’s, after he had jumped off Bart’s rooftop. It was here that his voice hitched and he couldn’t say anymore without breaking again.   
“I’m surprised actually,” he said, in an attempt to change the topic. “I haven’t dreamed about Afghanistan in ages. These days it’s usually about you or Mary.”

“Mary?” Sherlock inquired.

“Well, yeah.”

Before he knew it he was babbling out every detail of his marriage to Mary. How manipulative she was. How controlling she was. How he felt about the miscarriage and leaving her. All of it. Except the phone call from earlier.

“It just feels wrong, you know?” he said, laying down and propped up on his elbow. He lazily traced circles into the bed sheets as he spoke to Sherlock lying on his back beside him.

“I feel like I should be more upset about it than I am. But I’m not. It was more of a relief than anything else. It allowed me to leave her with no strings attached. Otherwise, I’d still be there now, raising a child with a murderer.”

This was strange. They never talked about their feelings like this. And most certainly not at 3 am like teenagers at a sleepover.

“You still could have left her and brought the child here with you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. She would have been just as welcome. We would have been able to take care of her.”

The thought of raising his child with Sherlock had never occurred to him. He wondered what their lives would have been like with his baby girl included. He pictured Sherlock bouncing her on his lap, feeding her her bottle, playing peek-a-boo.

He stifled a laugh at that last thought.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . you with children?” He could just barely see Sherlock rolling his eyes in the dark.

“It may surprise you to know I am actually fantastic with children.”

“Yeah, it does surprise me, actually. Sorry if I find the thought of The Great Sherlock Holmes playing hide and go seek with a three-year-old a bit more amusing than you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, dead serious. And then the corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched up, and they both burst into a fit of childish giggles. Once they started, they couldn’t stop. John clutched at his heaving stomach as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. Sherlock put the back of his hand to his mouth trying to contain his laughter.

“Shh, keep your voice down!” John huffed as they calmed down. They giggled and imagined their lives with a child in the picture.

Sherlock mixing up baby formula into his chemistry set by mistake. The two of them arguing over who gets up in the middle of the night. John having to stop him from performing experiments on her.

“Oh, come on, John. Think of the possibilities we could explore in shaping the human mind in early childhood!”

“No, Sherlock. You would absolutely not be allowed to experiment on our baby.”

John could see a hint of a smile underneath his pout when he called her “their baby”.

They laid back and drifted into a comfortable silence, their content smiles lingering on their faces in the dark.

“Though, I would do it, you know,” Sherlock said after a while in a more serious tone.

“Do what?”

“Take in your daughter. Make her our own. Raise her with you. If that’s what you wanted. If that’s what would have made you happy, I would have done it without a moment’s hesitation.” 

John’s heart tugged and tears prickled in his eyes once more. Of course Sherlock would. He would do anything for him. And what did he have to offer him in return? Secrets, lies, danger . . . nothing good ever.

He remembered Mary’s threat to kill him and the warm serenity in his chest diminished quickly. He swallowed tightly and rubbed his forehead. Sherlock could tell he was distressed, and pulled the blankets up to his chest for him.

“It’s okay, John. Go to sleep.” Sherlock’s hand was back in his hair, stroking it gently.

It felt nice. Before he knew it, he slipped off into a peaceful slumber.

*****

When John woke a few hours later, Sherlock was still in his bed. John was on his side, knees slightly tucked. Sherlock was behind him with one arm carelessly thrown over his torso, and his face buried into the nape of his neck. John was not surprised to see that he had been crowded to the far corner of the bed while Sherlock was splayed over the empty space like it was his own to claim.

He smiled to himself and rolled over to examine Sherlock’s sleeping face. He never saw him like this; features completely relaxed, forehead free of creases, mouth gaping open. A tuft of dark, curly hair fell delicately on his forehead. His eyes darted back and forth behind his eyelids. He looked . . . peaceful.

John figured it was about four in the morning. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have fallen asleep here, but it was too early to get up. And John didn’t have the heart to wake him and tell him to go back to his own bed. Not when he looked this serene and lovely sleeping next to him.

This is alright, he told himself. They were just two friends hanging out late in the night and happened to fall asleep. No boundaries were being crossed. None that a certain ex-wife would disapprove of.

And it would be heartless to wake him, he figured. So John closed his eyes and allowed his hand to rest on Sherlock’s forearm on his waist. He turned his face towards his friend’s and drifted back to sleep with a content smile lingering on his lips.

*****

The delicate beam of sunlight peeking through the curtains teased John’s eyes open. The events of the previous night came pleasantly flooding back into his memory and he smiled sleepily to himself. He turned his face secretly hoping Sherlock would still be there, but was disappointed to see the other half of the bed empty.

_Oh God,_ he thought, panic beginning to stir in his stomach. _What have I done?_

Allowing Sherlock to spend the night with him? In his bed? He rolled onto his back and cast the crook of his elbow over his face. He had even woken up in the middle of the night. Why hadn’t he told Sherlock to leave?

Perhaps having him there in such close proximity screwed with his head. Especially looking so beautiful with his long eyelashes and- 

 

Okay, stop, John told himself. Clearly spending too much time with Sherlock clouded his judgement, and distancing himself from him cleared it. He could never allow this to happen again. He could not allow his carelessness to get Sherlock killed. He would simply have to distance himself emotionally and physically from him as much as possible, as difficult as that may be.

John got up and made his way down the stairs, the guilt still settled in his stomach. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the way Sherlock had looked at him last night, as well as the implications of the whole situation. Intentionally or not, he was leading Sherlock on, and it needed to stop.

He turned into the kitchen to see Sherlock already dressed and putting on his coat. He had expected at least a little awkwardness to ensue between them. After all, they had just slept all night in the same bed- had even cuddled a bit. But Sherlock appeared perfectly normal, bustling around the kitchen, doing five things at once, preparing to head out.

“Good morning, John. Sleep well?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.

“Good, good. I’m working on a case today. An ongoing one, in fact. Been working on this one for a while. Most interesting case for months. Want to come?”

John answered, reluctantly. “I’ve got work, Sherlock.”

“Perhaps later you can join in then. Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in.”

“I . . .” He fought back to urge to agree, to go with him and be his partner again. “I can’t Sherlock.”

Going on cases with Sherlock again was the last thing he needed if he was to distance himself from him. Even after the tantrum he had thrown yesterday, he still couldn’t allow himself to accept.

“I don’t deserve to go. Not after yesterday.”

“Don’t be silly, John. Now, there’s a party tonight we must attend. Formal wear.”

He brushed past him and shoved an invitation in his hand. John skimmed it over.

 

“Dinner and dancing?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about wardrobe necessities. I will rent a tuxedo for you and leave it in your room.”

 

“Sherlock, I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“Nonsense. I’ve already RSVP’d for the two of us. Be ready at 7. See you later.”

And with that, he was out the door, leaving John alone in the kitchen with the invitation in his hand.

Be ready at 7? What was this, a bloody date? John shook his head and sighed. If he was going to be forced to go on a case with Sherlock, why couldn’t it be a nice, simple murder off in a filthy garage somewhere.

He tossed the invitation on the table in annoyance. One case, he told himself. He would go on this one case, behave himself, and then explain to Sherlock that he couldn’t work with him anymore.

He grabbed a biscuit and left to get ready for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying this so far :)
> 
> Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated. 
> 
> If you want, you can follow me on tumblr at itsjohnlockokay where I'll post updates for this.


	4. Chapter 4

At exactly 7 o’clock, John looked himself up and down in the mirror before going downstairs to meet Sherlock in the kitchen. He had shaved his stubble and styled his fringe back ever so slightly. His tuxedo and dress pants were a deep, rich burgundy with black lapels. Underneath the jacket, he wore a crisp, white button-down shirt and a slim, black tie.

He looked rather dashing, he thought as he fixed up his hair a bit. Sherlock had good taste. 

He trotted downstairs and turned into the living room only to have the breath knocked out of him at what he saw standing in the middle of the floor. 

Sherlock looked _stunning._

He was dressed in a black tuxedo, dress shirt, tie, and pants. His hair was gelled up even more than usual. Each shiny, ravenous curl was deliberately placed for maximum, lush volume with one curl falling perfectly onto his forehead. His head-to-toe black outfit contrasted beautifully with his pale as moonlight skin and further accentuated those damned sharp cheekbones.

John took his time eyeing up his entire body, drinking in every detail. Realizing his mouth was hanging open, he quickly snapped it shut and finally met Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock looked smugly back at him and adjusted his tie, as if he knew exactly how he looked. Lowering his head slightly, he gazed at John through his ridiculously long eyelashes and smirked playfully.

There was no mistaking it, John thought. He was definitely flirting. As interest began to pool in his stomach and groin, he forced himself to look away.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Ready?” he asked and cocked his head towards the door.

*****

The cab ride had been forty minutes of John trying his hardest not to gawk at the gorgeous man beside him, all while their legs were pressed snugly together. He tried looking down at his lap but got distracted watching Sherlock rub his hand up and down his own thigh very slowly. When that became too much, he had settled on staring pointedly out the window for the rest of the ride.

But finally they had arrived at the hotel and were being escorted to their seats. The party was in a gorgeous, lavishly decorated hall. The walls were lined in intricate wallpaper and small candle lights. A beautiful, grand chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, casting bright light onto the scene below it. Several round tables draped in white tablecloth were scattered methodically throughout the room. Up front and center was a wide, open space: a dance floor, no doubt. No one was currently on it, though light, casual music played softly in the background.

John’s stomach clenched at the visible reminder that they might be expected to join a dance or two. 

The party was already alive and buzzing. The mingling guests around them were all either dressed a formal tuxedo or an evening gown. Two long tables with refreshments lined the far walls of the room- decorative fruit baskets and sweet trays from the looks of it.

John and Sherlock reached their table on the far side of the hall and sat down. No one else was there at the moment, although there were jackets around the backs of a few chairs and some unfolded napkins. They wouldn’t be dining alone.

“Daniel Ray,” Sherlock said after they had settled down.

“Sorry, what?”

“That’s the name of the host. That man over there.”

Sherlock subtly nodded towards the front entrance, where there stood a well-built, stocky man in a navy blue suit. From what John could see, he was fairly handsome. He had chocolate brown hair, angular cheekbones, and a sturdy chin speckled in dark, well-groomed stubble. He couldn’t help but think he slightly resembled Moriarty, too.

“He throws these evening parties annually. There are three events on three separate nights. This one is the first. In the-”

“Wait, Sherlock. So we’ll be going to more than one of these?”

“Depends on when we get the information we need and when are able to call for his arrest.”

John silently swore to himself. He would have to get through three of these parties with Sherlock. Specifically, with Sherlock looking like _that._

“This man is a business thug. He runs several companies that all operate in a complex network composed of blackmail, bribery, back-alley deals, and crime. He’s the kind of man who always gets what he wants. The money he earns for himself and for his business is tarnished. Almost never acquired legally.”

“Why is this the most interesting case for months? All we need to do is weasel our way into his ranks and put a stop to his illegal activities, yeah?”

“No, John. Not quite.” Sherlock smiled at him in that unsettling way of his when a particularly clever serial killer had captured his interest. He lowered his voice and continued.

“Throughout the year, he makes several deals and proposals, legal and illegal. This almost always requires at least one confidant. Someone who knows every last detail of every dirty scheme, theft, and bargain he’s been a part of. When he’s finished with his business, he can’t have those people still hanging around. He has to do away with them or else they might talk. Willingly or unwillingly.”

“So he fires them?”

“He kills them.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes. He’s very good. Simply brilliant! Never gets caught.”

“Sherlock.”

“That’s why he throws these extravagant parties every year. In the first one, he observes his people. Listens in on their conversations, sends other confidants to see if they can get each other to spill, evaluates how trustworthy they really are. He decides who is valuable enough to stick around for him another year and who must go. He chooses one person every year who doesn’t make the cut. And he murders them.”

“Jesus. This guy doesn’t play around.”

“No, he doesn’t. So that’s what the first party is for. The selection. In the second, he gets them alone and kills them. Always perfectly staged. Always meant to look like a total accident. Or like someone else did it. Or sometimes it’s not even documented for weeks. The third party is for rewarding those who were worthy enough to stay another year. But of course, none of them know that.”

“So are we going to try to figure out who he’s going to murder this time and stop him?”

Sherlock tilted his head slyly. “Sort of.”

John could tell that was all he was going to tell him for now. It wasn’t everything, but at this point he trusted that he would be filled in as they went along.

Throughout dinner, the two of them mostly kept to themselves at their table. Sherlock entertained him by deducing the guests, making him laugh inappropriately.

“That man over there? Cheated on his wife last night. She walked in to find him and his girlfriend together and proceeded to kick him out. He had to get ready for tonight in a two-star hotel. He even hit on the room service ladies and got one of their numbers. Also got slapped by a hotel waitress. ”

“Seriously?” John asked, stifling a giggle. “Sounds like a total womanizer.”

“The woman over there.” He subtly gestured to a stunningly attractive lady in a violet dress. “She secretly does prostitute work behind her boyfriend’s back. But he found out when she accidentally serviced his cousin who she’d never met. He told on her and now she’s here single.”

“No way.”

“The lady in blue over there seems to be chatting up Mr. Posh Mustache.”

“Yeah?”

“Won’t be so interested when she finds out he sucks his thumb in his sleep.”

John snorted and choked on his water, resulting in them both laughing way too loudly to be considered appropriate. Sherlock regathered his composure fairly quickly, but John couldn’t contain himself once he had started. He clutched his sides and pressed a napkin to his mouth as the water began to dribble out.

He attracted the appalled gazes of several nearby guests. Sherlock beamed down at him, smug that he had gotten him to laugh this hard.

“Shut up, you prat,” John said when he had pulled himself together.

He put a hand to his chest and caught his breath, beaming back up at Sherlock. But after a moment, his smile dropped slightly.

This was something Sherlock used to do a lot before the fall. Back when it was just the two of them living in their own little world. He would make John laugh in inappropriate settings by deducing the people around them. Within no time, the two of them would be in a hopeless fit of giggles, breathless and leaning on each other for support.

John missed it terribly. And he missed Sherlock. He missed their easy intimacy, the long nights they spent out working on cases, the precious moments they would catch between work to just be together.

Nothing was the same. And he could see in Sherlock’s eyes that he missed it too. Both of their smiles slowly faded out of existence, replaced with knowing stares. John was the first to break eye contact when it got too intense. He looked down for a moment and then redirected his gaze to the dance floor.

Soothing, classic 80’s music was playing. Men and women were swaying hand in hand in perfect synchronization. Colorful dresses twirled around numerous pairs of legs.

John couldn’t help but remember the dance lessons Sherlock gave him in the weeks leading up to his wedding. Surely he remembered a thing or two. God, that felt so long ago.

Looking down, he realized both he and Sherlock were lightly tapping their feet and watching the dance floor, a heavy silence present between them. He noticed Sherlock’s head was even nodding slightly along to the music. 

They were playing good songs, he thought. Oldies, classics. Songs that the people of this party’s age group would recognize and reminisce in. 

The current song ended, followed by a few moments of awkward silence and shuffling before the next one played.

The lights dimmed just slightly, and everyone on the floor slowed down. The mood shift was obvious; they were about to play a slow dance. The couples threw their arms loosely around each other, swaying gently in place.

The intro piano chords to Faithfully filled the room. John’s head snapped up, nostalgia flooding through his chest; he knew those notes anywhere.

Beside him, Sherlock was smiling fondly to himself and eyeing the floor with much more interest than before. His lightly drummed his fingers along to the music.

John chuckled to himself and shook his head. Sherlock wanted to go _so badly._ He could tell.

“Sherlock?” he asked.

“Yes?” he answered, not meeting his eye.

“Would you like to dance?”

Sherlock’s head snapped towards him, his expression confused.

“I think I’m due for a brush up on my skills. It’s been awhile.” Sherlock’s guarded face melted into a beautiful smile that filled John’s heart.

_‘Highway run, into the midnight sun.’_

John smiled back and took Sherlock’s hand, leading him to the dance floor. They faced each other and took their positions.

_‘Wheels go round and round. You’re on my mind.’_

“John, may I lead?” Sherlock asked. 

During the lessons, John had always led, but he didn’t mind. “Of course.”

With that, Sherlock took John’s waist in one hand, held his hand with the other, and pulled him along.

_‘Restless hearts.’_

They stepped and swayed with the music, enjoying the feel of being so close again.

_‘Sleep alone tonight.’_

“Well, looks like lover boy pulled,” John joked in a low voice. To their left, the man Sherlock had deduced earlier was dancing with the lady in the violet dress.

Sherlock chuckled. “It would seem so.”

“Or maybe she’s just trying to make a buck.”

“Oh, no. She’s definitely into him.”

John smiled and they continued to effortlessly step and glide in perfect sync.

_‘They say that the road ain’t no place to start a family. Right down the line it’s been you and me.’_

“I’m surprised no lovely lady in red has come to pull you away yet, actually,” John said, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at all the beautiful women dancing around them.

“And why is that, John?”

“Well, because . . . you know.” Sherlock’s eyes told him he did not. “You look, well, rather amazing tonight.” He blushed and looked down. When he got no reply, he cautiously rose his gaze back up to find Sherlock smiling radiantly down at him like he was the sun. 

“Thank you, John. If you don’t mind, you look quite handsome as well.”

“Well you picked my bloody outfit.”

They chuckled softly together. Sherlock’s grin faded, quickly replaced with a much different look.

“Hush, John,” he said, and John ceased his chuckling. They locked eyes, pulled each other closer and stepped together in a smooth dance.

_‘I’m forever yours . . . faithfully.’_

John tried to look elsewhere, but Sherlock’s intense gaze on him was too drawing. Once they had locked eyes, neither could break away. He found himself leaning more and more into the gentle touch. Sherlock complied, pulling him further in at his waist.

Together they swayed and enjoyed the music, the calmness and and serenity of it, the perfect pacing.

John’s stomach fluttered, what with Sherlock’s sparkling blue eyes looking at him like that, and the weight of his hand settled on his waist.

He allowed his gaze to drop to those pink, plush lips, and his thoughts to drift to how much he longed to lean forwards and kiss them. Just once. Slowly and gently, to feel them, soft between his own. His imagination told him it would be electrifying. He settled for gripping his hand tighter in affection.

After stepping side-to-side for some time, Sherlock lifted his hand slightly. John picked up on the suggestion. It was the beginning of a routine they they had done countless times during the dance lessons.

He smiled and allowed himself to be twirled by Sherlock as the music spiked.

_‘And being apart ain’t easy on this love affair.’_

Sherlock caught him and spun him outwards, both of them now smiling ear to ear from pure enjoyment. 

_‘Two strangers learn to fall in love again.’_

Sherlock stepped in to hold him, swaying them side to side. Their hands met again and they stepped apart, their arms outstretched between them.

_‘I get the joy of rediscovering you.’_

He pulled him back in close, their chests panting against each other. After a momentary pause, he ever so slowly lowered John into a dip.

_‘I’m forever yours.’_

He held him there, hovering nearly horizontal above the ground, their noses touching and their eyes still locked.

_‘Faithfully.’_

He pulled him back up as the soothing chords played around them. John rested his forearms on Sherlock’s shoulders and crossed his wrists behind his neck while Sherlock encircled his waist.

They pulled each other close, their foreheads and noses pressed together.

They remained just like that, swaying slowly in place, their gazes lowered down. It was so beautifully intimate, so _right_ for them to be doing this again.

_‘Whoaaa, oh- ohhh.’_

_‘Whoaaa, oh- ohhh.’_

As the song neared its end, John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes to find his intense gaze on him once again. His heart welled over with emotion and love.

_‘Faithfully! I’m still yours . . .’_

All of a sudden, panic and dread filled John’s chest as Mary’s threat rang in his ears.

“Let there be no doubt about that, John. I will kill him . . . I will burn the heart out of you . . .”

What the hell was he doing? He and Sherlock were _dancing._ This was not how tonight was supposed to go. He was supposed to keep his distance and fucking behave himself.

He could see Sherlock trying to catch his eye again, wondering what was wrong as John’s face flushed pale.

“I have to go,” he said, looking back at him with panic stricken eyes.

Mary would have ways of knowing what had happened tonight. She probably already did.

“What?” Sherlock asked with wounded eyes as he flinched back.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, his voice cracking horribly.

He pushed himself out of Sherlock’s hold and rushed off the floor. Behind him, Sherlock remained rooted to the spot, alone and confused, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and nearly bolted towards the exit.

He fled out of the hall with the finale cry of _‘I’m forever yours’_ resonating in his ears.

*****

John got a cab, went straight home. Once at the flat, he marched straight up to his room and flopped onto his bed.

He didn’t go to sleep. No, he stayed up chastising himself for his careless behavior. He had allowed himself to get a little too comfortable, spent just a little too much time giggling with Sherlock, and before he knew it, had lost all sight of his intention to remain distant.

He kicked himself and wrestled with the sheets. _So stupid._ He eventually began to relax, although he still couldn’t bring himself to sleep. 

At some point in the night several hours later, he heard the door to the flat open and quietly close. John could practically hear the sadness in Sherlock’s footsteps as he made his way to his room and closed the door quietly.

John cast an arm over his forehead. Hearing Sherlock silently slip behind his door was almost worse than hearing him slam it after he had yelled at him the other day.

At least he had gotten home safe, John reminded himself. Still, he couldn’t toss the image of Sherlock’s deeply wounded eyes when he had left him on the floor out of his mind’s eye.

He turned on his side and drifted into a fitful sleep.

*****

“So, er, any news on the case?” John asked as casually as he could the next morning. Sherlock was bustling around the kitchen while he was drinking his morning tea in the doorway.

“Hm? Oh, yes. He’s selected his victim. I know who it is. And I know how he intends to murder them at the next party. Which, by the way, is in one week. Saturday night.” He added that last part cautiously, as if uncertain if John would be attending it with him.

“Great. That’s, um, good. At least now you can prepare accordingly in order to stop him.” It was lousy attempt at conversation, and John knew it. But he couldn’t bring himself to ignore him completely after his rudeness last night. 

Sherlock smiled tightly at him and looked down. Both were avoiding the obvious topic of John’s abrupt departure during the dance. But neither would bring it up.

Thankfully, Sherlock’s phone beeped, breaking the dreadful silence.

“Text from Lestrade. Gotta run.” He hitched his coat on and waited by the door, watching John. Both knew he didn’t have work that day and could easily come along.

John felt a magnetic pull tugging him to the door by his gut. He craved the adventure and thrill of going on cases with Sherlock. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to accept the wordless invitation. But after last night, he didn’t trust himself.

“Well, er, that’s great. I have some stuff to catch up on anyway so . . .”

Sherlock nodded curtly at his refusal. Without another word, he wrapped his scarf around his neck and left with his head down.

*****

John would sometimes not be able to attend cases in their lives before the fall and Mary. When that happened, Sherlock would always text him an almost minute by minute update of what was going on, to the point of being annoying even. And John would always instantly jump in when he was available, already up to speed on everything and eagerly ready to assist in any way possible. 

But this time, his phone remained silent. Not a single text the whole day. And John wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t constantly checking his phone. He absolutely was and he hated himself for it. Who was he to think that Sherlock would keep him up to date on his cases when he had flat out refused to go with him for no reason whatsoever.

They both knew he had nothing to “catch up on.” He had spent the whole day watching the news and crap telly, and reading his old blog entries, bored out of his mind. 

No, John had absolutely no right to expect Sherlock to still include him. He had every right and reason to cut him out of his work life all together. But John wouldn’t pretend it didn’t cut him deeply to think that they would ever reach a point where Sherlock wouldn’t want him around anymore. A point where he would stop inviting him on cases, stop telling him when Lestrade texted, stop seeing him as his partner. 

Sherlock stayed out until dark. John barely ate the whole day and stayed planted in front of the television. He had at least brought his laptop down and spread out some books and papers to create the illusion of being busy in case Sherlock came home.

When the door finally opened, a dripping wet Sherlock came through it. He was drenched from the knees down, his hair was damp and tousled, and there were dirt smudges on his face.

John automatically stood up, doctor mode activated. His first instinct was to ask what happened, inquire about the case and find out what had gotten him in this state. It seemed like a bloody fantastic tale and he was simply dying to know every detail.

But he stopped himself. He knew himself well enough to know he would be instantly drawn in if he asked.

He closed his mouth and relaxed his posture. Sherlock fully entered and removed his shoes, smiling at him. John noticed he was also carrying several boxes. There was no mistaking the smell of Thai food that instantly filled the room.

John’s stomach ached. Thai food with Sherlock by the television sounded wonderful.

But almost in an instant, the hunger he felt was replaced by the tight squeeze of dread and guilt.

There was no doubt in his mind that the situation would be inherently romantic. He and Sherlock had had many nights in like this before. They would order take-out and sit on the floor with their backs against the couch. They’d watch some ridiculous movie and eat off the coffee table while Sherlock deduced the plot, pointed out faults, and criticized the actors. They’d maybe pop open a few beers and spend the evening in a hazy, giggly stupor.

Sherlock was absolutely trying to initiate one of those nights. But this time, after everything they’d been through, there would be a different mood hanging in the air, and they both knew it.

John couldn’t put himself through that. He couldn’t be with Sherlock, he reminded himself. Not without getting him killed, and he couldn’t heartlessly lead Sherlock on or torture himself by letting loose with him. 

Sherlock smiled at him and set the boxes on the coffee table. He walked back to the door to remove his coat and scarf.

“Feel free to start opening them. I’ll bring some plates and join you in a moment.”

“Actually I, uh, had a pretty bad reaction last time I had Thai. I think I’ve developed some kind of aversion to the nuts in the sauce or something. Or maybe it’s the spices. I’ll just grab dinner somewhere else.”

He made his way to brush past Sherlock and walk out the door, keeping his head down, unable to look him in the eye. But Sherlock’s arm darted out and closed the door, stopping him from proceeding.

John turned his face towards him. He was looking down, clearly upset. After several moments of silence, he finally spoke.

“What am I doing wrong, John?” It was barely above a wobbly whisper, but given their close proximity John heard every word perfectly. And it cut through his core. 

“I’m trying so hard.”

John looked away. He couldn’t bear to watch his trembling lip, his glassy eyes.

“I . . . I made you breakfast. Poppy seed muffins. Your favorite . . . I remembered.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“And we danced. You asked . . . I was enjoying it . . . I thought you were too.”

His voice shook, but remained relatively controlled.

“And now you don’t want to go on cases anymore. It’s like you don’t even want to be near me.”

At this point his voice was wobbling dangerously. Still, neither of them could lift their faces and look each other in the eye.

“I know it was hard for you. All of it. I know, John. But I was there. The whole time.”

John knew it. Uncovering Mary’s history, the forgiveness, the miscarriage. Sherlock was by his side through the whole thing. Never once wavering.

“And then you moved back in. And I thought maybe . . . now that it was all behind us, maybe we could . . .I thought that maybe there was something . . .” he swallowed the rest of his sentence.

John couldn’t deny the wetness on his cheeks. A few silent tears had escaped his eyes. He drew in a shaky breath trying to rid himself of the guilt burning a hole through his chest.

He couldn’t tell Sherlock about Mary. He couldn’t. She would know. And she would kill him. He blinked away the hot tears in his eyes but remained silent.

“I’m trying, John.” He could hear the strain in his voice. It was very unlike Sherlock to say things like this. “Just please . . . tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Their eyes finally met, both glazed with tears. John drew in several shaky breaths, unable to speak with Sherlock’s helpless, vulnerable gaze pinning him.

He eventually found his voice, weak and broken as it was.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled and the tears threatened to pour out.

“I have to go.” John pulled the door open. Sherlock didn’t resist him this time. He rubbed his sleeve against his eyes and darted down the steps.

He flew out of 221B, intending to find some darkened, isolated place where he could release his emotions and not return home until Sherlock would for sure be asleep.

*****

Throughout the week, Sherlock continued to invite John on cases. And John continued to decline. He spent all day at work, and was quickly running out of excuses to not be home with Sherlock in the evenings.

After a few days of this, Sherlock had gotten the hint and stopped interrogating him on his whereabouts, tearing his excuses apart, and insisting on his company on cases.

Although John should have been relieved that he had succeeded in his endeavors to push Sherlock away and kill any chance that they had at a relationship, all he felt was shame and remorse.

He never should have let Mary play him like this. He never should have lost control of his life. He never should have led Sherlock on when he knew there was nowhere they could go without putting themselves in danger. But most of all, he never should have let himself fall in love in the first place.

John had received no further messages or harassment from Mary, so he took that to mean he was satisfying her terms.

All he ever felt was dread, sorrow, and remorse. Pushing Sherlock away had lost him a key part of his central being. After he had returned home from the war, he was not himself. After losing Sherlock, he was not himself. When he and Sherlock were together, then and only then was he whole, happy, and alive.

And he knew the last piece of the puzzle to complete his happiness was to be with Sherlock in every aspect of the word. And now that possibility was within his reach, but he still couldn’t have it. That was the worst punishment Mary could have inflicted upon him. She really had burned his heart out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the full experience, reread the dance scene while listening to the song! You won't regret it, I promise ;)
> 
> This is probably my favorite chapter of this fic. Hope you guys liked it as much as I do!
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated :)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stopped in front the kitchen table on Saturday morning.

John looked up from where he was sitting reading the paper. They had barely communicated for days. Their conversations were limited solely to “good mornings,” “good nights,” and “I’ll be home later.”

Sherlock paused uncomfortably before speaking, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other.

“The party tonight is at 8. You must attend because there is already a table reserved for us.”

He spoke while tying his scarf around his neck, refusing to meet John’s eye. When he was finished he whipped out the door without waiting for a response.

John didn’t fail to notice the hostility, coldness, and distance in his voice.

*****

Just as before, John’s outfit was laid out on his bed by Sherlock and ready for him when he got home from work.

This time it appeared the party would be much more casual. The outfit consisted of a white button-down shirt, a handsome silver-gray blazer, and khaki slacks. He styled his hair a little less formally, letting his fringe fall slightly onto his forehead.

Scanning over his appearance in the mirror, he half-heartedly vowed to behave himself this time. Although, deep in his aching heart, he knew he wouldn’t have to try as hard. Whatever chance he once had with Sherlock was already ruined beyond hope.

However, it was the first time since the party last week that they would be spending this much time together, so it never hurt to prepare.

He descended the stairs and rounded off into the kitchen. There, Sherlock stood in a pair of tight pants and a black button-down. The top few buttons were popped open, revealing just a tease of those beautiful, pale clavicles.

Stop it, John coached himself.

“Ready when you are.”

*****

The party was in a very nice, upper scale club.

There was a massive circular bar in the center island. All along the black-painted walls were circular booths decorated with plush, hot pink cushions where stylishly dressed men and women were sitting together and enjoying drinks. There of course was a dance floor, accompanied by light background music and the faintest hint of a strobe light. It was already occupied by groups of people who had possibly already had too much to drink. The dim, yellow, orange, and hot pink lighting hanging from the ceiling cast a warm, evening glow through the entire place.

Sherlock made none of the usual attempt to make John laugh over dinner or even mildly entertain him. Nor did he reveal any more information on the case. They both knew John was there as a formality, even though he was just itching to be involved. He could see Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze sweeping over the crowds of people, thinking through the case and how he would carry out his plan of action, whatever that might be.

Another hour or so into the party, the two of them remained at their booth watching the drunken, wiggling bodies mashed together on the dance floor.

John thought with a sharp ache in his chest how much fun they’d have if they danced. The blinking, colored strobe light flashed the silhouettes of the fist-pumping crowd on the walls around them. The beat of the music pounding into their chests, the DJ, and the clusters of people waving their arms in the air. . . it all looked so wonderfully enjoyable.

John knew he and Sherlock would have a blast if they went. If things were different. If they hadn’t grown so distant. 

“Mind if we join you?”

He and Sherlock broke out of their dazes to find two beautiful, young women standing by their booth.

One was a blonde haired girl wearing a sleeveless, lavender dress that flowed elegantly to her knees. The other was a tall brunette with high arched eyebrows and bright lipstick wearing a short red and gold dress.

“I’m Stacey,” said the blonde. “And this is my friend Julia.”

“Hi,” John said politely while Sherlock nodded curtly.

“We both came without dates tonight and were looking for some company. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“No, not at all!” John scooted closer to the center of the circular booth and made Sherlock do the same. The two girls giggled and squeezed in close on either side of them. Sherlock looked incredibly annoyed, but after John kicked him lightly under the table, he smiled tightly at Julia sitting next to him.

“Hi, handsome,” she said in reply, her voice low and seductive.

“So how do you two know each other? Coworkers?” Stacey asked.

“He’s my plus one,” Sherlock shot back without looking at her.

“No, not . . . as his date,” John quickly corrected. “We’re flatmates. And . . .” he trailed off as he struggled to describe their relationship. ‘Friends’ didn’t sound quite right. Not after everything they’d been through recently and how they were treating each other.

“And we sort of work together, yeah.” He felt Sherlock glance at him, and with a twist in his gut he remembered that he no longer assisted Sherlock with his work at all. So what were they?

“Oh, how sweet!” Stacey cooed. “Julia and I were roommates in university. We’re best friends now and share a flat as well.”

“How nice,” Sherlock said sarcastically, obviously not caring in the slightest. John kicked him under the table again.

“So you, handsome,” Julia drawled, turning Sherlock’s face towards hers with a long, slender finger. “I want to know why you’re here alone. There’s no way a gorgeous face like yours could be single.”

John clenched his fist under the table and resisted the urge to clear his throat at her. He knew he had just made it all too clear that he was not Sherlock’s date, yet he couldn’t help the burn of jealousy that ignited in his chest.

“What’s your name, cutie?” Stacey asked, linking her arm with his and pulling his attention away from Julia cozying up to Sherlock.

“Um, John.”

He continued to chat politely with Stacey, but couldn’t help sneaking glances to see what Sherlock and Julia were up to next to him.

She was stroking a long, painted fingernail down Sherlock’s cheek and was somehow nearly in his lap.

More than a few times, Stacey had to pull on their linked arms to draw his gaze away.

Next to him, Sherlock remained still as a statue as Julia leaned in and began whispering in his ear. John’s vision went red, but focused his attention in on Stacey.

She was cute, he thought. More than cute. She was beautiful. He allowed her to snuggle up to him, giggling and smiling radiantly at everything he said.

The next time John looked over, Julia appeared to be sucking on his earlobe.

How was Sherlock letting this happen?! Granted, he did appear to be more annoyed than anything else, sitting still with his sharp gaze fixed straight ahead.

John clamped his jaw shut. He had a gorgeous lady on his arm too and he was just as free to have fun as Sherlock was.

He turned on the charm for Stacey, giving her his most devilish smile. He continued to sweet talk her, was even enjoying himself once he got into it.

But a deep moan to his left made him snap his head towards the sound. Julia had climbed onto Sherlock’s lap, cupped his face, and latched her mouth onto his. 

John’s vision went hazy with jealous fury. He just might’ve knocked the table over in a fit if Sherlock didn’t firmly push her away by her shoulder.

Looking just past her ear, he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. John followed his gaze but couldn’t see what Sherlock was irritated about.

“We need to dance,” he said as-matter-of-factly. His voice was absent of the adoration or sentiment that was there when John had asked him to dance at the last party.

John knew who he was addressing. But before he could reply, Julia said, “Oh, I’d love to.”

“Yes, that sounds lovely! Let’s all four go,” Stacey piped in. John allowed himself to be dragged by his arm to the floor, following behind Sherlock and Julia.

They wormed their way into the dancing crowd, squeezing between bodies and bumping into people. The colorful dots of light roamed the crowd as they struggled to find space. Eventually, they found a cleared area near the top corner by the bar. 

Immediately, Julia threw her arms around Sherlock and pressed her whole body to him. He rolled his eyes and looked past her shoulder at John.

John looked back at him over Stacey’s shoulder, who was dancing in front of him.

“Come on let’s see what you got,” she teased, and John began to move with her. She turned around so her back was against his chest and reached up to touch his face. The two of them stepped side to side in relative time with the music. Stacey’s dancing was upbeat and energetic, whipping her head from side to side and shaking her hips, but John only kept on watching Sherlock.

He tore his eyes away from Julia practically throwing herself on him and focused on Stacey. He placed his hands on her hips and began to move more enthusiastically with her.

But his eyes returned to Sherlock not even a few moments later. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in question.

_Oh, fuck off, you prat,_ John communicated with his eyes. _You have a gorgeous woman flinging herself at you, and you’re giving me that look for having fun with mine?_

Sherlock seemed to get the message and raised both his eyebrows. He held Julia by the waist and tilted his head at her, looking her in the eyes seductively. He snapped his low gaze back to John and smirked.

_Oh two can play at that game,_ John thought. He turned Stacey back around to face him, gripped her hips, and pulled her in tightly. He graciously returned her eager smile, and then looked back to Sherlock.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and dipped one hand lower on Julia.

_He wouldn’t._

He watched that pale, bony hand trail slowly and teasingly down the side of her curvy body, grip her thigh, and pull her leg up against him. He looked back to John and smiled coldly.

John’s face reddened.

_I can play dirty, too._

He returned his attention to Stacey, gripped her hips firmly, and grinded against her like a teenager. She opened her mouth in surprise, and John smiled wickedly at her before snapping his gaze back up to Sherlock.

Sherlock no longer wore that self-satisfied smirk from earlier. He looked stony and furious, his expression full of betrayal and bitterness.

_Don’t look at me like that. You started it._

_And I’ll finish it,_ Sherlock’s cold, hard eyes replied.

He tipped Julia’s chin up with one hand and lowered his head.

Time stopped for John. The music faded out and he heard nothing but his heart pounding in his ears.

Julia brought one hand up and carded through his curls. John scowled in rage at the scene playing out in front of him.

Sherlock grinned suggestively at her, dipped his head, and kissed her full on the mouth.

John’s blood boiled in his ears. His face went scarlet red as he gritted his teeth furiously. But when Sherlock flicked his angry, challenging gaze back to John and broke away from Julia, he finally snapped.

He gripped either side of Stacey’s face, pulled her in, and snogged her furiously. She kissed him back aggressively, much to his surprise, running her fingers through his hair as he dominated her tongue with his own.

_See how you like it . . . Want to play like that . . . I’ll show you . . ._ were his only thoughts as he snogged her senseless for several long moments.

He finally broke away, panting heavily, and turned his gaze only to find that Sherlock had disappeared.

_What the hell?!_ He screamed in his mind.

Stacey, red in the face and still slightly dazed, turned around to follow John’s gaze.

“Where did Sherlock go?”

“I don’t know. He ran off,” Julia said with a slight smirk at him.

_Of course he did,_ John thought. _The prat._

Some of his anger must have still been lingering on his face because Julia then asked, “Are you alright?”

He glared at her. He knew the kiss wasn’t her fault but since Sherlock was gone, he couldn’t help but direct his anger towards her for the moment.

“You noticed he was gone rather quickly, even though you seemed to be busy enough a moment ago.”

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Alright,” she said, unbelieving. “Well, Stace and I should be heading out anyway. We’ll leave you to find your . . . er, friend.”

“Yes, I’ll go grab our coats,” Stacey said, and squeezed through the dancing crowd, leaving John and Julia alone.

“It was lovely meeting you both. Just call if you need anything.” She dropped a wink. “Sherlock has my number.” She chuckled lightly at his expression when she said this. 

“Oh, and John,” she said, as he turned to leave. The genuine softness in her eyes snapped him out of his hazed fury. “I really hope you two sort things out. Whatever it is that’s going on between you.” She smiled knowingly at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, please,” she said. “I’d have to be blind to not notice how many times you looked over at him.” At the panic in his eyes, she switched tones to reassure him. “Oh, don’t worry. Takes one green-eyed monster to know another.” 

She turned to stare longingly after Stacey. “At least Sherlock noticed what you were doing. Stacey didn’t even look once . . . I brought her here tonight because I thought maybe . . .” She shook her head to clear it. 

“No, I was being silly. Stacey likes men." She turned sadly bad to John. “Anyway. Take care, John.” 

John stood on the floor for several moments as his brain caught up with what had happened. Whereas a moment ago he had hated Julia with every fiber of his being, his heart now went out to her. They were fighting the same battle, and he mentally wished her all the best. At least he didn’t have to worry about tracking her texts like he had with Irene Adler, he thought on a slightly more positive note. Finally shaking his head clear, he wormed his way off the floor and set out looking for Sherlock.

He scanned the club, but his height and the dim lighting made it difficult to see anything. After walking in countless aimless loops, he finally spotted Sherlock chatting with the host in a far off, darkened corner. 

_Oh, right. The case,_ he thought with a sinking feeling in his gut. He realized Mr. Daniel Ray was probably what Sherlock had had his gaze fixed upon in the booth the whole time Julia was flirting with him. And he had probably asked them to dance so he could keep a better watch on him, but he got distracted and lost track of him. So he ran off.

John sighed and leaned against the circular bar counter, watching from afar. He couldn’t deny that a part of him was hoping Sherlock had run off the floor in a fit of jealousy. And that when John found him hiding off somewhere alone and upset, they would have some deep, heartfelt talk like something from a rom com. 

Goddammit, he thought as he watched Sherlock and Ray laughing heartily with drinks in their hands. He was hopelessly in love and he knew it. This was no longer just him repressing pent up feelings and attraction. He had it bad for Sherlock, always had, and it was screwing with his head.

“Can I offer you anything, sir?” a bartender asked.

“No thanks, mate,” he replied without taking his eyes off Sherlock and Ray. Sherlock threw his head back in laughter as he playfully grasped his arm for support.

John squinted at them. Something seemed slightly off. Sherlock was acting way more drunk than he could possibly be. He had been with him the whole night and he hadn’t had anything to drink. There was no way he had gotten that tipsy in the few minutes they were separated.

Sherlock stumbled forward and steadied himself on Ray’s shoulder. John clenched his fist as Ray leaned in and whispered something into his ear. His mouth was touching his skin and his hands suggestively skimmed down his back. Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he erupted into a fit of giggles and replied. John couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it seemed to be compliant.

Ray supported a stumbling Sherlock by the small of his back and led him towards the exit.

_Wait, what the hell is he doing?_ John thought as panic rose swiftly in his chest. _Ray is going to kill someone tonight! He’s supposed to be - oh._

John’s panic quickly transformed into rage as realization dawned: Sherlock had somehow ensured that he would be the chosen victim.

Goddammit! he thought again, enraged as he hopped away from the bar counter and fled after them. Sherlock and Ray slipped out the door into a darkened hallway. There was no telling where they were off to. As John squeezed his way between people, he felt up his pockets to double check his gun was there. He pushed his way through the crowds of people, worried about Sherlock, but also furious at him for stupidly running off alone with a murderer without telling him.

He whipped out his phone and called Lestrade. When he answered, he jumped right into a rushed explanation of the situation.

“Alright, hang on. I’ll be right there,” he replied.

John hung up and finally made his way out the door. He jogged down the dark, deserted hallway, pushing open each door he passed, his panic rising with each empty room.

_Come on, Sherlock,_ he begged silently. _Where are you?_

He reached the end of the hallway where he had to make a decision. Down the left side there were lights on under two closed doors and one open one. On the right side there was light under one closed door. Ray likely would have wanted them to be as isolated as possible.

He broke out into a dead sprint towards the door. Pulling out his gun, he burst inside without waiting.

Sherlock and Ray were standing in the middle of the room. Ray’s back was to him as he snogged him viciously and felt him up beneath his unbuttoned shirt. Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to John and widened in alarm when he saw him panting in the doorway with his gun.

Before he could communicate anything to him, John rushed forward and easily tackled Ray to to the ground, aiming his gun at him.

“John! What the-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John growled as he glared at Ray’s quivering form on the ground.

“I . . . I had everything under control. You shouldn’t have-”

“I said shut up!” Sherlock flinched and cowered under John’s heated gaze.

_We will talk about this later,_ John said with his eyes as his chest heaved. Sherlock frowned and hung his head in shame.

He returned his glowering gaze to Ray. “Consider yourself lucky they want you alive for questioning.” His voice rumbled low and dangerous. “Otherwise I’d blow your brains out right this second.” Ray swallowed tightly, his eyes wide in fear and fixed on the gun aimed at his forehead. He opened his mouth to reply but John cut him off.

“No. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Don’t speak. And don’t move.” Ray nodded frantically and clamped his mouth shut.

John held him there at gunpoint seething with rage, his eyes never leaving his face. Finally, they heard police sirens wailing outside the club.

*****

John and Sherlock burst into 221B one hour later.

“Why the hell would you not tell me your plan, Sherlock?”

“For god’s sake, John! I told you I had everything under control!”

“You were unarmed! He could have killed you, Sherlock! Do you understand that? Do you understand what could have happened tonight? What it would have done to me?” That last part slipped out before John could stop himself. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to look him directly in the eye.

“What? What would it have done to you, John? Please tell me exactly what would have happened.” he shot back, his eyes hard and challenging. “Would you have been upset, John? Would it have affected you so much to have me removed from your life? Would it really?”

“Stop it,” John whispered as the words cut deep into his chest.

Sherlock’s eyes glistened with the early formation of tears as he continued. “Would you have cried, John? Would you have missed me at all?”

“Stop it, Sherlock!” John’s voice shook as he fought back the sting of tears in his own eyes. He breathed deeply as he struggled to push back the memories of Sherlock’s faked death flashing through his mind.

“Because based on how you’ve acted lately, you want nothing to do with me!”

The razor sharp hiss of his words sliced into him. He pinched his eyes closed to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

Sherlock continued ruthlessly, his voice beginning to wobble.

“At this point, you are deliberately hurting me, John. You know very well what I want from us. Yet you insist on heartlessly leading me on and then pulling away at the last moment. Do you deny this?”

It was all he could do to not explode into a fit of crying anger.

“That’s what I thought. Of course you wouldn’t care how you’re hurting me. You never have. That’s why you left in the first place and only came back when you needed to use me for a place to live.” 

John gasped and turned around, hiding the single tear that slid down his cheek from Sherlock’s view. Sherlock didn’t mean that. He couldn’t.

“I allowed myself to open up to you. I let you in . . . never in my life have I made a worse mistake.”

John’s eyes flew open in hurt. Without responding, he fled out the living room, up the steps, and into his bedroom. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, panting and grasping at his heaving chest.

At last, he could hold it in no longer.

His face scrunched up and all the welled up tears spilled from his eyes. He released a single, gasping sob and slid down against the door, pulling his knees up into his chest.

He buried his face in his arms as his whole body trembled with shuddering sobs. Hot tears streaked down his face. They spilled onto the forearm he was biting into to muffle the sound. Though, he knew it was no use. He was positive Sherlock could hear him downstairs.

All his pent up emotion spilled until his eyes had dried out. He cried for Mary being the cause of all this, he cried for the dance he and Sherlock didn’t finish, he cried for almost losing Sherlock yet again, and he cried for the cold, ruthless words that had torn him apart downstairs.

At last, no more tears fell, but both of his cheeks remained slick. He clutched his aching stomach as dry sobs continued to rip through him in loud, rapid gasps.

No matter how hard he tried to stop himself, even just to breathe, he couldn’t control it. As he placed his other hand over his mouth to quiet himself, the unrelenting, violent sobs shook him harder and harder. Eventually, no more sound came out. He was reduced to silently shaking shoulders and a rapidly trembling chest.

When it finally began to ease up, he was a red-eyed, sniffling mess leaning heavily into the corner of the walls. He could breathe easily once again, minus the occasional hiccup and shuddering breath.

He let his head fall back against the wall and pushed his hair off his forehead. He hadn’t cried like that since Sherlock’s death. And just like then, instead of it feeling good to let everything out, all he felt was empty and horribly sick to his stomach.


	6. Chapter 6

When John woke up, the first thing he noticed was the emptiness that still remained in his chest and belly. Part of it was because he was hungry, he rationalized. But as the dreaded memories of the previous night came back to him, he couldn’t deny the primary source of the pain.

The skin of his face felt tight and uncomfortable from the dried up tears he hadn’t wiped off his face. He realized he hadn’t even changed into his night clothes. He had torn off his silver-gray blazer, opened the top two buttons of this shirt, and crashed onto the bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

He fumbled through the sheets to find where his phone might have slipped into the folds and checked the time.

It was 8:30. And right below the time was a notification with a text from Sherlock.

_Out on a case. Will be home late._

John cast a forearm over his face. The events from last night left him certain of only one thing: Mary had won.

His feelings for Sherlock had not diminished in the slightest over the past few weeks, but his mental stability sure had. Being a part of Sherlock’s life and without actually being with him how he’d want to be had taken a toll on him. With a heavy weight settling into his chest, he finally and fully understood that he was in for a torturous life. There was no end in sight to this. And now, not even was any chance of a romance with Sherlock gone for good, but their friendship was at stake. Just hanging by a thread.

But he would rather have Sherlock as a friend than not have him in his life at all. If that meant a lifetime of unrequited feelings and unspoken love, so be it. At least they would be together - sort of. He heaved a heavy sigh and at last got out of bed.

He allowed himself a lazy weekend morning trying to convince himself he wasn’t completely bored out of his mind. In the late afternoon, he settled in front of the television with a beer in hand. He’d done enough silent pining over Sherlock, he figured. If he didn’t get some alcohol into his system, he knew where his thoughts would drift. 

He flipped through the channels, but nothing captured his interest. His restless sleep from last night began to catch up to him. His eyelids grew heavier as he began to nod off listening to the news reporter on the screen. Within ten minutes, he had drifted into a dreamless sleep . . .

*****

The sound of the door to 221B slamming open pulled John hallway out of his slumber.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice called.

“Mm?” he mumbled, cracking his eyes open to see Sherlock kneeling by the couch. His shoulder was violently shaken.

“Hey, what’re you . . .”

“Are you alright? Jo – you’re just sleeping.”

"Yeah, at least I was. What time is it?"

“It’s . . . it’s 5 o’clock.” Sherlock shifted on his knees in front of him looking embarrassed.

“What? I thought you said you’d be home late.” John sat up and stretched his arms.

“Yes. I was, at least.” He cleared his throat. “I thought something had happened to you.”

“Why would you think that?” He checked his phone and saw two missed calls from Greg and five from Sherlock after that. “What happened, Sherlock?”

“Well, erm. A minor incident occurred. Nothing to worry about. But Lestrade seemed to think it was necessary to phone you. I assured him it most certainly wasn’t, but he insisted. And when you didn’t answer . . .”

John tilted his head at him, confused.

“Well, it’s just, you know. Usually you answer your calls. If you had ignored a call from me that would have been a bit more understandable.” They looked away from each other when he said this, the painful memories of last night hanging in the air.

“But you had no reason to ignore a call from Lestrade. Much less two. So, you could understand why I panicked.” Sherlock got quieter and quieter as he spoke, as if unsure if it was alright for him to be concerned. 

 

_Sherlock admitting he panicked_ , John thought in his half-asleep state. _Someone mark this date on the calendar._

 

“Sorry for waking you.”

John ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair contemplating the fact that he had dropped everything and fled a case simply because he hadn’t answered a call.

“No, it’s alright. I’m fine.”

“So I see.”

Silence followed as he trailed off. Sherlock stood facing John with his hands folding uncomfortably in front of him. After several moments, he picked up the conversation again.

“I see you were having a daytime drink?” he asked, gesturing to the partially empty beer bottle on the coffee table.

“Oh, yes. Just thought I’d unwind a bit. But it’s probably too warm to be good now.”

“Well, then. I’ll get you another.” Another obvious pause, followed by a timid, “Would you mind if I joined you?”

“Um, please,” John replied, gesturing to the spot next to him on the couch.

He knew their fight last night had gone too far. They both said things they didn’t mean, and they needed to clear the air. _A few beers in front of the telly to break the ice was innocent enough, right? Right?_ he rationalized to himself. 

Sherlock came back with two cold beers in hand. He sat a respectable distance away from John and clicked on the television. _The Princess Bride_ was playing. A classic, John thought smiling to himself.

The two of them sipped on their beers watching in silence. Before long, John had sent Sherlock to fetch two more. Sherlock began criticizing the cliché romantic tropes used in every other scene, huffing and puffing about how predictable and utterly boring it was. John snorted into his bottle hiding a smile.

“What are you laughing at?”

“It’s not about being original, Sherlock. It’s supposed to be cheesy in its own, charming sort of way.”

Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms. “Tedious.” John stifled a giggle.

Several drinks later, Sherlock and John had both shifted to the center of the couch and were chuckling into their drinks. Empty bottles were scattered around the table as the credits of _The Princess Bride_ rolled on the television.

“John, John, John!” Sherlock said eagerly, lightly hitting his knee.

“ _Hic!_ What?”

“Remember? Remember the time with the cabbie? With the two pills? _Hic!_ ”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“That was just like what Vizzini did to Westley.”

“Oh, you’re right!”

Sherlock burst into a fit of drunken giggles.

“What is it?”

“You shot the cabbie,” he said as he snorted and laughed harder.

“Oi, shut it! You would’ve died if I didn’t!”

This only caused Sherlock to explode into another fit of high-pitched giggles.

“What now?”

“If – _hic!_ – if I’m Westley, then you’re Buttercup!”

“Oh, no way. – _hic!_ \- I’m Westley.”

“No, you’re my fair maiden, John. I have to come rescue you!” He lunged forwards and tackled John by the waist so he fell backwards onto the couch.

“Sherlock!” John’s drink spilled out of his hand as he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and pushed back.

“No, John! I have to – _hic!_ – save you from Vizzini!”

“Get off me, you prat!” He shoved Sherlock hard, rolling him off of him and onto the ground with a thud.

John burst into his own fit of giggles, but was interrupted when Sherlock’s hand reached up and pulled him down too.

“Oof!” he yelled as he fell beside Sherlock on the floor. Sherlock scrambled to his knees, tugging at John’s arm again.

“Come on, John! I have to save you. You can’t be with Mary!”

“Humperdinck.”

“Humperdinck!”

John was hauled into a sitting position.

“Sherlock, you git, you’re drunk,” John said with an affectionate smile.

“Not as drunk as you. You’ve had two more drinks than me.”

“I’m drunk, but I’m not a lightweight like you.”

“Shut up.”

They smiled warmly at each other and leaning back again on the couch. When they finally broke eye contact, Sherlock started giggling again.

“Oh, what is it now?”

“Truth or dare?”

"Seriously?"

“ _Truth or dare_ , John!”

“Dare.”

“No, pick truth.”

John sighed impatiently. “Truth.” Sherlock looked away and snickered into his palm. “What?”

“That day at the club? I didn’t actually want to dance with Julia. I wanted to dance with you!” He pointed at him and burst into laughter as if this were the most plot-twisting reveal of the century.

“Yeah, I know, you git,” John replied with a chuckle of his own. “And that’s not how truth or dare works.”

“Isn’t it? You said ‘truth’ so I confessed something truthfully.”

John looked him over curiously. Even with those puppy eyes, that confused brow, and that raised chin, he somehow still managed to look like a stuck up prat. His head spun as a rush of affection for this adorably clueless man washed over him.

“No, it’s not. But if we’re doing confessions, I’ve got one for you.”

“What?”

“I liked having you sleep in my bed. That first night I was back. I slept better than I had in years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He may have been drunk, but he wasn’t drunk enough to keep from reddening slightly in embarrassment.

They were silent for a moment, looking down into their laps. John was hyper aware of how close they had scooted together during their conversation. Their thighs and knees bumped with every shift of their weight. It reminded him of all the late night post-case taxi rides they used to share, in their old lives. The darkness of the night in back of the car, their legs bumping and their tired bodies drifting to sleep next to each other – it had all felt so wonderfully intimate. John missed it immensely. 

“John, I’ve got another one,” Sherlock said much quieter. 

“What?”

He swallowed tightly. “I didn’t mean what I said last night. I was just angry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey. We both crossed the line last night. Let’s not worry about it, okay?”

He nodded stiffly. And that was it. They stared forward in silence watching the credits continue to roll on the screen. A moment or so later, John piped up again with another confession.

“I miss the dancing lessons you used to give me. Quite a lot.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened innocently. “You do?”

“Yes. And I missed them even more at the party the other week.”

Sherlock’s voice came out softly, barely above a whisper. “What do you miss about them?”

“I don’t know exactly,” John replied with a shrug. “I guess just being that close to you. It felt nice. It was comforting.”

Sherlock still looked drunkenly confused. “But we’re sitting close now,” he pointed out.

John chuckled warmly. “I know we are.” He leaned in and placed his hand over Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock looked down at it in surprise. He knew they were both thinking of his stag night, so long ago, when a similar touch had occurred.

“Does this feel nice, too?” he asked quietly.

They locked eyes and time seemed to stop. John leaned in and glanced down at Sherlock’s lips.

"Yes . . ."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he told himself not to do this. That he was approaching dangerous territory. A soft mental alarm wailed in warning, but he ignored it over the warm, fuzzy buzz that had taken over his brain and body. He felt so good right now. So right. He wasn’t that drunk, after all.

He reached out and ever so gently held Sherlock’s chin between his fingers, his breath ghosting over his lips.

It was all or nothing now.

At the same time, they leaned in, their lips barely grazing. Sherlock gasped at the contact. After a moment of adjustment, their lips slowly closed around each other.

It was the purest of kisses. Just a shy brush of the lips. A chaste little nibble.

But it was electrifying.

They pulled back, and ever so slowly raised their gazes to look at one another.

“John,” Sherlock breathed uncertainly.

“Yeah,” he replied, fondly stroking the softness of his chin between his fingers.

“You just kissed me.”

“I did.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So ’re you,” he mumbled, blinking slowly.

“No ’m not,” Sherlock slurred, leaning into him slightly.

“Sherlock?”

He slumped forward onto his shoulder.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

John hauled him up to his feet, supporting him from under his arm.

“M’fine John,” Sherlock moaned sleepily.

John led him into the kitchen and down the hall, stumbling over his own feet and walking head on into the walls. Once in Sherlock’s bedroom he dropped their combined deadweight onto the bed and was rewarded with a deep snore. He chuckled fondly at the sprawled out body beside him. He curled up against Sherlock’s back,cast an arm over his hips, and fell asleep.

*****

John woke up to a pounding headache and the blinding, white morning light burning his eyes.

“Oh, god,” he groggily mumbled as he shifted in his bed. 

Wait, no . . . Sherlock’s bed. 

He froze and looked around him. The sheets to his left were disturbed, and the door leading to the hallway was slightly ajar. Sherlock had woken up, seen them sleeping together, and left. 

Mentally kicking himself, he remembered getting stupidly drunk with him last night and crashing into his bedroom. Had they gone directly to sleep? Or did they . . . no. He was still wearing all his clothes, he realized, looking down at himself And he felt he would remember instantly if they had.

But there was something that happened . . . something that stuck out in his fuzzy, hungover memory.

It came back to him with a pang - of course. How could he forget. 

He burrowed back into the sheets, wanting to hide from the world. How the hell was he going to explain this? Might as well get it over with. Shaking his head, he allowed himself to indulge in a few more minutes of inhaling the sweet, Sherlock-scented sheets before he pulled himself out of bed, stretched painfully, and made his way to the kitchen. 

“Good morning.”

“Morning. Sleep well?”

“Er, yeah. I see you cleaned up then,” he said gesturing to the spotless coffee table in the living room.

“Yes. I figured Mrs. Hudson would not be too pleased if she saw the mess we made.”

He wondered if Sherlock even remembered everything that had happened last night. He had been way more drunk and was acting perfectly natural at the moment.

John didn’t know what would be worse. Sherlock remembering their kiss, or not remembering it.

“So that beer stain in the carpet. You got that out, then?”

“Um . . .” Sherlock was silent for a moment, clearly embarrassed that he’d forgotten all about it. “Well, we can just shift the couch a little and forget it was ever there.” John returned his cheeky smile with another chuckle.

He rubbed the back of his head. “Did you really never see _The Princess Bride_ before last night?” he asked, leading into the inevitable conversation he knew was bound to happen.

“No. And it was disappointingly clichéd and predictable.”

John laughed warmly. “You didn’t seem to think so when you were pretending to be Westley saving the day.”

“Did I really do that?” he mumbled softly, but his reddening cheeks implied that he most certainly knew exactly what he was referring to.

“Yeah. You got into it, too. Shoving me off the couch and insisting that I be your damsel in distress.”

“Okay, shut up, John. At least I wasn’t the one to spill the drink!”

“You knocked me over!”

“Yes, well . . .” he trailed off, his face red as a tomato at this point. They met eyes and burst into shared laughter at the memory.

“And did you really not know how to play truth or dare?”

“Apparently.”

_And did we really kiss?_ He wanted to add.

As their eyes met, their smiles dropped slowly. The unspoken question was written all over their faces. They both remembered.

Sod it, John thought. Sod Mary and her stupid threats. He was in control of his own life. She wouldn’t stop him from being happy. Besides, he and Sherlock had already crossed the line. It was all or nothing now. If he wanted to sit him down and have a conversation, then he damn well would. And if she came after them, they would deal with it together. Like they always had.

They couldn’t brush this one under the rug. The dinner, the dancing, the club, their fight . . . they had been dancing around the edges of it for so long now, staying just back just far enough to be able to retreat at a moment’s notice. Not this time. It was time to talk. Well over time time to talk, in fact.

“Look, Sherlock, about last -”

Ping! Sherlock pulled out his phone and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh,” he said reading the text, presumably from Lestrade. “Yes! Oh, John this is brilliant,” he said dashing to the door and pulling on his coat and scarf.

“Triple homicide. Identical circumstances. All in key locations around town where Lestrade suspects an underground gang network is operating. Yes!” he exclaimed, with a little jump.

“Oh, mind if I borrow your gun? Could be dangerous.”

John’s head snapped up at the words that had first drawn him into Sherlock’s life. The invitation was written clearly on his face. The ‘You have missed this. Just the two of us against the rest of the world’ implied.

Not yet, John told himself. So close, but not yet. They needed to talk first. 

“It’s in my coat,” he said. Sherlock’s enthusiastic smile dropped somewhat, and he nodded his thanks.

“Sorry, what was it you were saying?” he asked as he slipped the gun into his own pocket.

“Oh, nothing. It can wait until you get home.”

Sherlock smiled in understanding. “I’ll bring Chinese home for dinner.”

“Sounds fantastic.” With that he was gone.

Every other time John had turned down a case, he was left feeling miserable and empty inside. Not this time. He knew what was in their near future.

Sherlock was going to come home, and they were finally going to talk. John would confess to him everything Mary had forced him into. He would explain why he had pushed him away so many times. Sherlock would take it to Mycroft and they would get it all sorted out. John would be freed from her control, and he would restart his life with Sherlock.

Sherlock would forgive him. He knew he would. He had to.

*****

Evening rolled around and Sherlock wasn’t home. But John wasn’t worried. He had probably just underestimated how long a case like this would take. In the excitement of it all, he wouldn’t be surprised if he had forgotten to text him.

6:00 . . . 7:00 . . . 8:00 . . . Not a word.

_For God’s sake, Sherlock. Would it kill you to shoot a text saying you’re running late?_ As if on cue, his phone buzzed.

"Thank God," he breathed. The tiny tingle of panic in his chest settled down as he fished through his pockets and pulled out his phone.

His blood ran cold.

_Call from Mary_ burned brightly on the screen.

Dear God, she knew they kissed. John just knew it. She had to know. There’s no other reason she would be calling.

He answered with shaking hands, and the high-pitched voice he had hoped to never hear again rang in his ears.

“Oh, John. I gave you one job. Just one tiny request.”

“Where is he? What the hell did you do to him?” he growled low into the phone, sounding much more confident than he was. He was already pulling his coat on and flying out the door.

“I gave you so many chances. Allowed you so many slip-ups. But you just never learn. There’s only so many chances I can give before I have to step in. You clearly can’t handle living with him and controlling yourself, can you? Always a slave to your primitive instincts.”

How dare she, John thought. How dare she make their first kiss, soft and chaste in the privacy of their living room, sound like the result of some sort of dirty, animalistic sex drive.

He waved down a taxi and climbed inside.

“Where the hell is he?!” he bellowed into the phone ignoring the driver waiting for instructions.

Her voice, as calm and stone cold as ever, replied, “You know where he is John. I thought it appropriate to end this where I should have all those years ago when I had the chance.”

“What?” John asked exasperated. “What are you-” All the pieces snapped together.

All those years ago where it could have ended . . .

The bomb vest, the hard drive, the red dots threatening to end their lives at any moment. Sherlock was at the pool from one of their earliest cases.

His heart pounded in his chest as endless possibilities flooded his mind. He shouted directions impatiently at the driver and hung up.

Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit. This was all his fault. Sherlock was in danger because of him. It was all he could do to hope and pray he wouldn’t arrive at the pool to find his dead body on the wet floor waiting for him. The very thought caused hot bile to rise in his throat in sheer panic.

No, he wasn’t dead. If Sherlock was dead, he would know it. Somehow. It was far more likely that Mary was waiting there with him. But who knew what they had been up to all these hours? The fire of panic in his stomach didn’t settle one bit as the taxi pulled up to his destination.

He hopped out and followed the same path he did all those years ago when he had been here with Moriarty. Adrenaline flooded through his veins, but not in the same satisfying way it did when he was on a thrilling case. No, this was a dreadful, burning ache in his whole body.

This wasn’t about his life or death. This was Sherlock’s.

He sprinted towards the doors leading to the pool feeling horribly empty and vulnerable without his gun in his pocket.

He tore the doors open and whirled inside to find Sherlock on his knees with his hands up, and Mary pointing a gun to his head.

“Sherlock . . .” he breathed in relief and alarm at the same time. He appeared relatively unharmed, just a little disheveled. But at the same time, one finger on the trigger of that gun could end his life at this very moment. His heart dropped in his stomach like a dead weight.

Sherlock looked up at him in fright. _What are you doing here,_ his eyes asked. _She’ll kill us both._

_No, Sherlock, she’ll kill you,_ he communicated back, along with an _I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry._

“Aw, look at you two,” Mary taunted, looking down at Sherlock. “You know you can speak right? Or are you too enamored with your knight in shining armor?”

“Why did you lead me here?” John asked to draw her attention away from Sherlock.

“I told you what was going to happen to you for leaving me, John. I told you I would burn the heart out of you. Just like Moriarty told Sherlock he would right here next to this pool. I gave you one job, and since you failed me, you get to watch him die right here in front of you. By your own gun, in fact.”

With horror, John only then realized that she was in fact holding his gun to Sherlock’s head. His gaze dropped down to Sherlock, whose widened eyes glanced up at him momentarily before looking back down.

John felt ashamed. Mary’s words made it clear that she and him had had some sort of secret agreement behind the scenes. Sherlock now knew he had been hiding something from him all this time and was clearly hurt that he hadn’t trusted him as a confidant.

John tried to catch his eye again to offer a comforting look. An apology. Anything.

Mary leaned her head back and laughed when she saw what he was doing. “Look at him, John. So pitiful. Even after all you’ve put him through, he still ends up here on his knees about to die. All for you. I’d say he looks almost glad to be of service, wouldn’t you say?”

She tilted his chin up with the tip of the gun. “Always ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for you,” she said inspecting his face. Sherlock closed his eyes and winced as she stretched his head back with the gun far too much to be comfortable.

“He’s done it before, I know. Die for you. And this is how you repay him. Heartlessly torturing him. Leading him on and then pulling away at the last moment.” Her exact imitation of Sherlock’s phrasing chilled him to the bone. “Late nights up together, sharing a bed, dinners, dancing. You two are quite the pair. Too bad none of it mattered.”

At her feet, Sherlock’s breath hitched at the reminders of all the cruel, heartless things he had done over the past several weeks. John wanted nothing more than to rush forward and take his face in his hands. To brush away the soft tears that were no doubt there, to tell him how much he was loved, and how badly he’d wanted to tell him all this time.

“Even so, he still loves you unconditionally like a love sick puppy. How pathetic.” She raised the gun and struck him hard in the temple with the hilt. His head knocked to the side, and a small bead of blood ran down his face.

John’s stomach boiled in absolute fury as he clenched his fist.

“I only did those things because of you!” he exploded. And suddenly, it all came rushing out at once.

“If you hadn’t called me the day after I moved in threatening to kill Sherlock if we ever got together, none of that would have happened.” Sherlock’s head turned towards him in surprise, his eyes wide and wounded.

John continued, barely keeping under control with heavy, angry breaths. His voice echoed low throughout the pool. “You called, and you cornered me into an eternal hell by not allowing me to go further with Sherlock. You said it was my punishment for leaving you. You forced me into a life of endless suffering by keeping me under your thumb this way. And you knew what it would do to us. You knew we couldn’t stay apart. You knew one of us would crack, giving you the perfect opportunity to come back into our lives and finally kill him.”

Mary’s eyes remained cold and distant as she tilted her head at him. John raged on.

“We aren’t here because of me or anything I did. We know why we’re here. We’re here because of you.” He pointed at her, his entire body shaking with rage. “We’re here because I love Sherlock and you say he has to die for it!”

At this, Sherlock gave a tiny gasp, and looked up up at John, his eyes wide, vulnerable, and glistening with tears. A large lump bobbed in his throat as he swallowed tightly. The anger on John’s face from yelling at Mary softened into a small smile. A private smile. One that was reserved only for the person he loved most in the world.

_Yes, I meant that,_ the smile said, answering the question in Sherlock’s eyes.

Mary’s cold chuckle brought them both back. “Aw, how heartwarming. Such a tragic story, you two. So sad it has to end like this.” She delivered another nasty blow to Sherlock’s head. This time he fell over, the blood dripping down his cheek.

“Stop it!” John yelled.

She raised the gun to strike again. Sherlock winced and turned away, bracing himself for another blow.

With the gun safely aimed away from him head, John lunged forward. He wrestled the gun out of Mary’s hand with difficulty. She gripped his hand and fought back, cracking down on his wrist and kneeing him in the stomach. He nearly lost it then, but he held on. In the midst of their grapple, it slipped both their grasps and slid across the floor.

They looked at the gun and then at each other. John started towards it, but stopped when she made a move towards Sherlock instead.

“No!” he screamed and dove to the ground, beating her to him. He pulled Sherlock into his chest, cradling his bleeding head in one arm and wrapping the other around his torso. “Don’t touch him.” He hissed quietly, anger warping his voice into something low and feral. “Don’t you ever fucking touch him _ever_ again!” he growled as he scooted them away from her.

Sherlock began turning towards his gun which was just slightly out of reach. “John,” he croaked, sounding like a garbled mess. But John hushed him and kept his head still with his hand. He didn’t want him moving much until he got that blow checked out. 

Mary glared down at them. Her cold, distant mask had shredded. In its place was a horrid scowl, a furious red-hot glare. She shook her head at John’s stupidity and pulled a spare gun out of her coat.

“You really think I wouldn’t have my own on hand, John?”

John’s mind whirred at top speed. He tried to think like Sherlock. What would he do if his head weren’t bashed up? He looked around. There were no extraneous lasers pointing at them like there were with Moriarty. That meant Mary was here alone. That made sense since this was her own personal revenge on him, and she was likely going against Moriarty’s orders by hurting Sherlock on her own. He doubted she would have help. He glanced to the side at his gun lying on the floor. Keeping Sherlock’s head cradled tightly to his chest, he began scooting them towards it.

Mary clicked the bullet in the chamber and aimed at Sherlock’s head.

“NO! Don’t you fucking _dare._ ” He was so close to the gun . . . just a little bit further.

“John, enough,” she said calmly. Her eyes suddenly went dead cold once again. She was ready to kill.

She focused her attention, and pulled the trigger.

With the other gun still out of reach, John shoved Sherlock out of his arms as hard and far as he could.

A razor-sharp, searing hot pain exploded in his side, as he fell forward. The blazing, fiery sting burned through his whole torso. His vision went black from sheer agony. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think.

Time seemed to slow in an instant . . .

The sounds around him merged into a low, garbled mess, but his slow heartbeat pounded loud and clear in his ears.

_Thump thump . . . thump thump . . ._

He was vaguely aware of someone shouting his name in a panicked frenzy, though it was muffled and disoriented. There was some shuffling, someone yelling . . .

_Thump, thump . . . thump thump . . ._

He opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s blurry figure peering over him. A pair of large hands cupped his face.

Sherlock . . . he thought as his eyes lolled back. He snapped them back to attention.

_Thump, thump . . . thump thump . . ._

“John,” he heard from above him. It sounded both like it was right next to his ear and miles away.

“John, no,” Sherlock blubbered, gently slapping his face to keep him awake.

“Sherlock . . .” he mumbled either aloud or in his head. The sound of a gun reloading echoed faintly in the distance.

_Thump, thump . . . thump thump . . ._

“Sherlock . . .” he moaned louder as he struggled beyond his abilities to stay awake.

He had to stay awake for Sherlock . He must protect Sherlock. He couldn’t die. He mustn’t.  
But he was bleeding. Oh, he was bleeding so much. He could feel the warm, sticky wetness in pooling in his side.

He managed to slit his eyes open once again. His vision was blurry, but came into focus for a moment. Sherlock still held him in his shaking hands, tears streaking down his face. His bottom lip trembled as he struggled to form words.

_Thump . . ._

_Thump . . ._

“Sherlock . . .” He blinked slowly, managing to stay awake, but barely. He had to fight for Sherlock . . . couldn’t die . . . not now . . .

_Thump . . ._

The last thing he saw as his eyes drifted shut was Sherlock glaring up at Mary with gritted teeth and raging fire in his eyes.

Then the world was dark around him.

The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was a bullet clicking into its chamber.


	7. Chapter 7

When John opened his eyes, all he saw was white. Just white.

He blinked a few times, but his vision remained hazy. Still, he was able to make out that he was in a hospital room. The look and smell was all too familiar to him. His mind whirred trying to remember what had happened. 

He tried to sit up, but his whole body screamed in protest. A burning sting exploded in his side.

_Oh right,_ he remembered. _I was shot._ The memories of the pool came flooding back. There was a conversation, he vaguely recalled. And then Mary pulled the trigger, and he took the bullet for Sherlock.

Alarm bells went off in his head.

_Sherlock?! Where was he?_

He struggled to prop himself up on his elbow, despite the sharp ache in his side. He looked frantically at the door to his left and then to his right. Sitting in a chair right by his bedside was Sherlock, alive and breathing. Apart from the decent-sized bandage on his head, he looked relatively well. Exhausted and worn, but well.

John collapsed onto his back once more and breathed in relief. A wave of drowsiness overcame him. He wanted nothing more than to escape back to the safety of sleep this instant.

Sherlock, in the same clothes he had worn at the pool, scooted up to the edge of his seat. One hand was near his lips, as if he had been chewing his fingertips and and then forgot about it. His eyes bore into him, watching him intently. John wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t blinked once for . . . however long he was out.

“Mary,” he croaked out. His throat burned horribly at the attempt to speak.

Sherlock’s hand rushed forward to smooth his hair off his forehead. “Shh,” he whispered. “She’s dead. Everything’s okay.” He smiled softly, brushing his hand down to cup John’s cheek.

“Good,” he hoarsely whispered back. That was all he needed to know for right now. With peace of mind, he settled back into his pillows and closed his eyes.

Right before he drifted off, he felt Sherlock’s warm lips press on his forehead and whisper into his skin.

“I love you, too.”

*****

When he woke the second time, Sherlock was asleep in the chair at his bedside. A soft grin grew on John’s face as he admired how calm he looked.

The muscles in his face were completely relaxed. No sharp lines at his forehead or cheeks. No hard set of his jaw. A dark tuft of hair had fallen forward, slightly covering one of his eyes. He rested with his cheek propped up on his fist, his mouth hanging open slightly. To top it off, a tiny bit of drool had collected at the corner of his mouth. 

John’s heart swelled at the sight. He looked precious. Almost child-like. As he slowly reached out to push that stray curl out of eyes, a nurse entered the room.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Doctor Watson. You gave us all quite a fright,” she said with a warm smile.

“How long have I been here?” He asked, groggily.

“All night and then some. It’s about ten in the morning now. This one here refused to leave your bedside for a moment. We had to pry him away from you to check on his head when you were rolled into the emergency room, but after-”

“Is he alright?” He cut her off, sparing himself the long tale he sensed coming.

“What? Oh, yes. No major damage done. Just a nasty bump is all,” she looked stunned at his inquiry, considering he was the one who had been shot. But then, she smiled as if understanding something for the first time.

“Well, Doctor Watson, you’ll be alright as well. We’ve got you patched up and managed to stop the bleeding before any serious amount was lost. We can’t discharge you today though. We need to run a few more tests, just to make sure. And we’ll need to keep an eye on you for a bit. After that you’ll be free to go home.”

*****

Lestrade came to visit the next day. They chatted while Sherlock ran down to the cafeteria to get them some food. 

“Sherlock told me about what happened at the pool with, er, Mary,” he said, as if unsure it was okay to say her name. “Nasty business.” 

That reminded him. “Yeah. Hey, did Sherlock tell you about what happened after I blacked out? I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet.”

“Well, he told me you pushed him out of the way so you could take the bullet. He fell in the direction of your gun lying on the ground. He said he grabbed for it, and then crawled back to you hoping to god you were alright. He saw that you had been shot, and sort of lost all control at that point. He and Mary both reloaded their guns. You passed out, and he shot her first. That’s it, I think.”

John’s head fell back onto his pillow just as Sherlock reentered the room. What do you say when you find out your best friend that you love has shot your supposed ex-wife that would have killed you both if he hadn’t?

“Ah, finally!” Greg exclaimed.

He and Sherlock busied themselves unpacking the boxes of food he had brought up. _Well, clearly that conversation is over,_ he thought. That was okay, he figured. He can always talk to Sherlock in more detail later. 

*****

Three days later, John and Sherlock stumbled into 221B together, aching, exhausted, and worn. They removed their coats and shoes slowly and in silence. Sherlock then walked John into the living room - into their home - supporting him gently by the small of his back.

John lifted his eyes and looked around.

He took in the patterned, spray painted wall paper, the cluttered bookshelves and table, the skull up on the mantelpiece, and finally, their plush, welcoming chairs. Just how they always were. His heart tugged at the comfort and familiarity of it all.

Yes, definitely home.

He turned to Sherlock with his mouth open, but found himself rendered speechless. Sherlock gazed back down at him, equally lost for words. John’s eyes swept over his face face - his dark eyelashes, his cheekbones, his slightly parted lips - drinking him in, taking comfort in the fact that he was alive and here, and not dead and abandoned in a darkened swimming pool. 

He wanted nothing more than to reach out and delicately stroke that bottom lip, to feel the warmth of his lifeblood underneath the skin. His gaze flicked back up to Sherlock’s intense eyes, focused back down on him and likely thinking the same thing.

Then, in an instant, they drew together like magnets, pressed against each other in a desperate, earnest kiss. John brought his hands up and tugged at Sherlock’s curls, deepening the kiss, needing more reassurance that he was really there, alive and breathing- needing to feel him, to taste him, to breathe him in.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and back, pulling him in tight. His fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the material as if he might vanish from between his arms at any moment. He pulled back to catch his breath, but John chased after his lips, closing the distance between them again.

They kissed breathlessly for what seemed like an eternity. Their shared breaths mingled hotly between their lips. They pulled soft, needy sounds out of each other that resonated into their otherwise silent living room.

Sherlock finally pulled back again, desperate for breath.

“John,” he breathed, pressing their foreheads together and panting over his lips. “I’m sorry.”

John knew he was the one who needed to apologize. For for keeping secrets, for pushing him away, for abandoning him, for putting him in danger. For all of it.

But he couldn’t talk about it now. Not just yet. He leaned in to try to capture Sherlock’s lips again, but he pulled back.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

“No. Shut up, Sherlock,” John whispered against his lips. They both tightened their holds on each other and kissed again, slowly yet fiercely.

That was all they needed at the moment. Just each other. Each other’s presence. Each other’s arms. Each other’s steady heartbeats.

After what felt like several minutes, John felt a sudden dizziness overcome him, and he went weak at the knees. Sherlock felt his shift in weight and supported him in his arms.

“John?”

“Chair.”

Just a few shuffled steps to the right, and Sherlock helped him collapse into his chair.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he breathed, and pulled Sherlock’s face in again for another heated kiss.

He couldn’t get enough. The feeling of Sherlock’s warm lips pressed so firmly against his filled his stomach with warmth that spread through his whole body. After waiting so long, once he was able to do this, he couldn’t stop. His heart expanded with the love he felt for him, and the complete fulfillment and certainty of this.

Sherlock propped his knee up on the chair, half straddling him while he leaned in further and cupped his jaw. He placed hard, wet kisses on his mouth again and again. Then on the corners of his lips and up to his cheek.

Pulling back and pressing their foreheads together once more, his hand lowered and grazed over the bandaged bullet wound.

“John, I-”

“No, Sherlock. You don’t need to apologize. I do.”

Sherlock looked into his eyes but didn’t stop him from continuing.

“I’m sorry. For everything. I’ve been keeping things from you since I moved back in and put us both in danger, and it was so stupid of me. And I’m sorry.”

“John, no, it wasn’t-”

“No, Sherlock! Just let me - I need to-” He took a deep, steadying breath and gripped Sherlock’s face tighter. He couldn’t even put into words how badly he needed to explain everything to him. All of it. No more hiding. If he didn’t do it now, it would eat away at his sanity forever.

Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded his understanding. 

John launched his tale, starting with Mary’s phone call on his first morning back in 221B. How she threatened to kill Sherlock if he ever got too close to him. How John tried so hard to distance himself to keep him safe. How it only made them both miserable, but he had no choice. How he couldn’t risk Mary finding out if he ever got help. How torturous it was to refuse Sherlock on so many occasions. How lonely he was all this time. How lost, and confused, and unhappy he was without him.

The whole time, Sherlock listened, silent and still. Never once interrupting him or moving from his spot half-climbed up into his lap.

“I fucked up, Sherlock. Really badly. I was stupid to not come to you in the first place. I just thought I was keeping you safe by doing what she wanted.” He swallowed tightly, leading into his next words with heavy emotion. “I overestimated my abilities to stay away from you, and it nearly destroyed us both. I could’ve gotten you killed and I don’t think I’ll ever live that down.”

“It’s alright, John. You truly had no choice in the matter and you were only doing what you felt was best for the both of us.”

John looked away, but Sherlock lifted his face with his hands, forcing him to keep eye contact again.

“Hey. John, look at me. She’s gone now. We’ll be alright.”

Right. She was gone. Because Sherlock shot her. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he finally said. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss it in the hospital. 

“I did what was necessary.”

“No, not just for that. For-” He swallowed thickly. “Everything. You’ve done so much for me.”

“John, you . . .” Sherlock looked taken aback. “You took a bullet for me.”

“Yes I did. And I would do it again.” He punctuated each sentence with a kiss. “And again. And again. If it meant saving your life.”

Sherlock lunged forward and captured his lips again hungrily, pushing his head to fall back onto the top of the chair. He moaned into his mouth and climbed fully onto his lap, kissing slowly along his jaw and all the way up to his ear.

“I love you,” he whispered directly into it. He moved lower and suckled lightly on a spot barely an inch below his earlobe. John’s eyes fluttered shut as he sighed softly. Sherlock released his suction and replaced it with soft, grazing, deliberate kisses. Just tiny pecks across the expanse of his slender neck.

John tilted his head back, allowing him further access. He kissed down his neck another inch or two and latched his mouth onto the skin, humming around it as he continued his ministrations.

John’s hands reached down to grip his arse, pulling him in more. When Sherlock introduced the slightest hint of teeth, he gasped sharply. They really should move this elsewhere.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. Sherlock lifted his head. For a moment, he seemed afraid he would be told to stop, but one look told him that was not the case. John gave him his best bedroom eyes, which he returned, and together they smiled from ear to ear. 

*****

Sherlock led John down the hall to his bedroom by his hands, kissing him softly as he did so.

As soon as they reached the foot of his bed, John growled low and dove into his neck. He licked up the pale column hungrily, making Sherlock shiver. He grazed his teeth over the skin and skimmed his hand under the hem of his shirt, softly caressing his waistline.

Moving his hands up, he undid the buttons one by one. Pushing open the two halves of his shirt, he dove in and lapped over a dark nipple. Sherlock threw his head back and released a guttural moan. As John sucked softly, his hands roamed all over his back, shoulders, neck, and sides. He rolled the little nub between his teeth and pushed Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders before switching to the other one.

When Sherlock was practically shaking, he pulled back. Crossing his arms at the bottom of his jumper, he made to remove it. But he moved too quickly, triggering a fiery pain shooting through his side. He winced and gripped his wound.

“John,” Sherlock said, concerned. “Are you sure you’re healed enough for this?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said, and tried removing it again before Sherlock gripped his wrists and stopped him.

“Let me,” he said softly.

It took a moment of Sherlock’s intense, knowing eyes staring him down before he relented and lowered his hands. He was not in a fit state to be this enthusiastic and in control, and they both knew it.

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled softly in understanding. He then hiked his jumper and t-shirt up and gently guided it over his head before chucking it aside. His eyes roamed his tan, muscled torso, lingering specifically on his two bullet wounds.

John felt slightly self-conscious being under such scrutiny. He knew his scars weren’t attractive, that he was past his prime, and had put on a few extra pounds over the years. He almost had to turn away, unable to watch someone as beautiful and ethereal as Sherlock inspect his ordinary, aging body.

But then Sherlock reached out and touched him, just around the middle, and he couldn’t help but gasp. Those hands alone sent an electric buzz through his whole body in an instant. They roamed the planes of his chest, sweeping over his pectorals, his ribcage, his waist. He could feel Sherlock taking everything in, nice and slow, memorizing every bump and curve of his body through his fingertips.

Once his hands were down by his hips, they slowly swept back up again. He brushed his thumbs over his nipples, and John let his head fall back.

Sherlock guided him to gently fall backwards onto the bed and land with a soft thud before climbing up and hovering over him.

John reached up, careful not to disturb his wound, and carded through his curls. He ran his thumb over his cheekbones and down to brush across his bottom lip. God, he was beautiful. Just magnificent. He wanted nothing more than to flip them over and treat him how someone as brilliant and gorgeous as him deserved to be treated. But he knew he couldn’t. So instead he relaxed into the bed, relinquishing control, and fully giving himself over to Sherlock.

Sherlock swept his thumb over his cheek in return, gazing down at him like he was the sun. “John,” he breathed, his eyes sweeping over every inch of his face.

John wondered how he could have ever possibly doubted Sherlock. He was capable of giving so much love, so much tenderness, and he was the luckiest person in the world to be receiving every last drop of it.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, just the slightest brush of his lips. He continued down, kissing his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, whispering his name between each peck, before finally reaching his lips.

It was the softest, most tender kiss he had ever felt, filled to the brim with love, commitment, and certainty. He pulled back, pulling his bottom lip out with him as he did so.

“John,” he repeated, before kissing him again, harder and hungrier than before. He pushed into his mouth, laving over his lips, teeth, and tongue. John gripped his head, pulling him in tighter. With this encouragement, Sherlock devoured his mouth with a carnal passion he never knew he could have.

He pulled back and moved down to his neck, kissing hard but lovingly, picking up where they had left off on the chair. He mouthed up the side of it and sucked slowly right under the corner of his jaw. John hissed and tilted his head further back. Sherlock grazed his teeth lightly over the spot, followed by a slow swipe of his tongue. After one last, tender kiss, he moved lower, giving his pulse point a similar treatment.

John’s toes curled in appreciation at Sherlock practically worshipping his throat. The way he devoured him so slowly, so lovingly, as if he was something to be treasured, warmed his heart and sent a fresh buzz of arousal flooding through him.

He gasped in a sharp breath as Sherlock sucked a hickey where his neck met his shoulder. He pulled back momentarily, shifting so he was positioned right over his scar.

John turned away here. Sherlock was going to see it up close and personal, and he couldn’t watch. He felt him caress it lightly with his fingertips. Again. And again. John expected him to move on soon, but he surprised him by leaning down and pressing a hard, lingering kiss right over the scar. He opened his eyes in surprise and looked down at him.

He found Sherlock gazing back up at him with a warm smile. He let his head fall back onto the pillow, his eyes growing misty with affection, as he realized what that smile meant.

Sherlock loved his scar because without it, they never would have met. His wound was what first brought them together. And for that, Sherlock found it beautiful.

Sherlock moved lower and hovered over his left nipple, breathing softly onto it. After stroking the hardened, pink nub with his thumb a few times, he swiped it with his tongue and closed his mouth over it.

John groaned and fisted his curls. Sherlock kissed and kissed his nipple with pure adoration, stroking the other one with his thumb. After a minute, he switched and gave the right one the same attention. He licked and plucked at it with his teeth, all while his hands roamed firmly up and down his sides.

He mouthed down to his belly. When John felt him smile slightly into his skin, he looked down again. Sherlock was hovering over the second bullet wound on his ribs. This one was too fresh for Sherlock to touch it directly, so instead he pecked tiny, gentle kisses on the sensitive skin around it. When finished, he beamed back up at John with the same radiant smile as before.

This was the scar from the bullet John had taken for him. It saved his life, and for that, Sherlock found it beautiful, too.

John wiped a single tear from the corner of his eye as he rested his head back down again. Never again would he doubt that Sherlock loved every bit of him unconditionally. Never.

Sherlock kissed him all over his belly, caressing the soft plushness he had acquired with age. His fingertips stroked and grazed every bit of skin they could reach. He sucked the side of his waist, leaving several marks and wet stripes. After pressing slow kisses around his navel, he delivered a hard one directly over it, flicking his tongue inside.

John gasped and wriggled, aching for him to go lower. Sherlock dragged his mouth down the trail of hair leading to his pants.

John cast his forearm over his head. No one had ever treated him like this before. No one had ever taken this much time exploring every inch of his body in such detail. Worshipping it, loving it. No one had ever found his scars beautiful. No one had ever treated him so tenderly, so softly, so carefully. Like he was a treasure. One of a kind. He was almost overwhelmed.

Sherlock hovered over his belt buckle. “John?” he asked.

“Yes, Sherlock. Please.”

In an instant, Sherlock’s eyes darkened. John could practically see the carnal desires and instincts taking over.

Sherlock quickly unfastened his belt and pulled it loose. He unbuttoned him and pulled his zip down, wriggling his trousers and pants off his hips. They couldn’t get off fast enough for him. Once off, they were cast aside carelessly, and Sherlock lowered down between his legs once again.

John’s aching hard erection stood stiff against his stomach. Sherlock stroked the length of it delicately. He reached the head and swirled his fingertip into the bit of pre-cum oozing out there.

John’s chest heaved in uncontainable arousal. This was going unbearably slow.

Sherlock lowered his mouth to the base of his cock and kissed it, giving it a firm, experimental stroke. When John moaned and arched in response, his eyes flicked up to meet his.

With a suggestive smile, he guided his knees to rest atop his shoulders. Now with his head between his thighs, he gazed up at him adoringly.

“I love you, John,” he said, and kissed the tip of his cock.

_What? Was he serious? Now?_

“Yes, yes, I love you, too,” he replied impatiently, panting and sweating. “Now get on with it, you git!”

Here he was spread open and exposed with his legs propped up and Sherlock’s face just inches from his dripping cock. If he didn’t suck him off _right now . . . ohhhh that was wonderful._

Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth engulfed him halfway down. He bobbed up and down a few times, going lower and lower each time, and sucking unbelievably hard.

John released a deep, guttural groan. He pulled back and lapped up and down his length of his cock. He swirled around the tip, and plunged down again, taking more of him in.

John could feel him relaxing his throat, breathing steadily in through his nose to allow him full access. When John’s full, impressive length was fully engulfed, they both moaned gloriously. Sherlock bobbed up and down with fervor, his hand roaming his thighs and arse.

John thrashed on the bed, gasping for breath and trying not to hurt himself. He was already so close - between the warmth surrounding his cock, the wetness of his tongue, and seeing Sherlock down between his legs, his cheekbones hollowed out from sucking _hard._

Sherlock rose up and plunged down again and again, grunting and moaning around him like his cock was a delicious treat. John trembled. He was definitely too close . . . he wouldn’t last.

Sherlock released him and moved down to suckle his balls. He mouthed eagerly at his most intimate parts, dipping lower to poke his tongue into his hole. After placing a full, open-mouthed kiss right on it, he pulled back and swiped his finger up his entire damp crack.

John panted with need, squirming as Sherlock wriggled a fingertip into his arse. He groaned and reached back, fumbling into his drawers for lube.

He thrust the bottle into Sherlock’s free hand. Before he knew it, an entire cool, slick finger had slid into him. He cried out and they both stilled, giving him time to adjust. After a moment, Sherlock added another and began scissoring his fingers in and out.

He inserted a third, stretching him nice and open. John groaned impatiently.

“Now, Sherlock!” he gasped. “Please.”

Sherlock sat up and undid his own belt buckle and pants. He slipped them off, freeing his own hardened cock. After lubing himself up, he crawled back over John, his arms on either side of his shoulders. John spread his knees out even further as he positioned his cock at his opening.

Sherlock looked down at him as he slowly slid himself into the widened hole. John tried to maintain the eye contact. He loved the intimacy of it. But he couldn’t help moaning and throwing his head back once it was all the way in. Sherlock took the opportunity to nip at his neck. He rocked his hips, setting a decent pace as his teeth grazed the already marked up skin. John whined and fisted his curls again.

His thrusts grew faster and faster. John’s mouth slackened in pleasure as his prostate was hit with perfect accuracy each time. Sherlock groaned and kept his face buried in his neck, biting and sucking. He increased his pace even more, their combined grunts growing needier with each thrust.

They were both right on the edge. Sherlock lifted up and looked down into his eyes.

John grabbed his face and pulled him down for a rough, hungry kiss. One and two more thrusts, and Sherlock was coming inside him with a loud, strangled cry. He reached down and fisted John’s cock, one, two, three times and finished him off as well.

Their teeth and tongues clashed as they kissed and panted into each other’s mouths, riding through their orgasms together. Finally, Sherlock collapsed on top of him, earning him a hiss of pain.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped and shifted his weight off of John’s wound.

“S’okay,” he whispered in reply as he stroked the damp curls on his nape. Sherlock buried his face in his neck again, relaxing as they caught their breath. They lay in bed for what seemed like an hour with the sheets remaining crumpled and bunched around their ankles.

Sherlock, with his head now resting on John’s chest, and John brushing through his curls. Sherlock lazily stroking John’s side with his fingertips, and John nestled into the top of his head. Both their bodies sticky with sweat and come, both with content grins plastered onto their faces.

The light drone of the ceiling fan lulled them into a drowsy daze. John’s eyelids grew heavier by the second, his blinks slower, his mind hazier. He would fall asleep any minute.

Just as he drifted off, he was woken by a pointy chin propping up on his chest.

“John,” mumbled a sleepy voice. He peeked his eyes open and looked down.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m hungry.”

John tossed his head back and laughed. He lifted Sherlock’s face up and smacked a quick kiss onto his sticky forehead.

“Of course you are. But here’s nothing in the fridge, I’m afraid,” he replied, pushing the damp curls out of his face fondly.

But it only took a small, whiny pout from Sherlock to have him reaching for his phone on his nightstand.

“Okay. How does Chinese sound right about now?”

“Extra dumplings?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock smiled and rested his head back on his chest.

“Sounds fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally after all that angst! Hopefully this makes up for it ;)
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated XD


	8. Epilogue

In the weeks and months to come, John’s wound healed over completely, leaving only a small, shriveled up, scar in its place. He was soon able to start moving normally again, going on cases with Sherlock, and sleeping with him regularly. And boy, did he make up for lost time.

On most days, Sherlock woke up far earlier than him, bustling around the kitchen, creating a ruckus, and not making an ounce of an effort to keep the volume down for him. On some days, they woke up at the same time, usually in a jumbled mess of tangled limbs. Sherlock was a cuddler. Often times, his face would be tucked snugly into John’s neck with his arms wrapped possessively around him. They’d open their eyes and gaze adoringly at each other, their faces flushed, their hair sticking up in all directions. Then they’d melt into a fit of sleepy giggles and kiss lazily until they had to get up.

But on the rare days when John woke up first, he took full advantage of it. He’d admire Sherlock’s sleeping form next to him, then teasingly drag him out of his slumber for a morning treat.

For instance, on this morning, he awoke bright and early, rolling over to gaze at Sherlock. He was asleep on his stomach, his arms wrapped tightly around his pillow and his face turned to the side. John placed his fingertips on his nose and cheek, stroking him fondly. With his beautiful body on display like this, adorned with the pale sunlight peeking in from their curtains, he just couldn’t resist touching him.

He slowly dragged his fingertips down his bare back, making him shiver unconsciously. He drew circles at his sides and then trailed back up again.

When Sherlock twitched in his sleep, he climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. He lowered himself down and began peppering loving kisses all over his neck and shoulders. Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he gave an annoyed little grunt. John chuckled and kissed his cheeks, his ear, the side of his nose.

When he kissed his eyebrow, the one eyelid that wasn’t hidden in the pillow peeked open. John sleepily rubbed their noses together with a cheeky grin.

“Morning,” he crooned.

Sherlock groaned irritably, almost like a child being woken for school, and burrowed his face into the pillow. John laughed nestled into the curls on the back of his head, enjoying the feel of them tickling his face. He shifted lower and began sucking softly into the groove between his neck and shoulders. He pulled back and smacked a kiss there, and then moved to the other side.

Sherlock groaned again, much more appreciatively this time, and relaxed into the pillow. Pleased with himself, John moved to mouth at the nape of his neck while massaging circles into his shoulders and upper back. He kissed down his spine, rubbing his thumbs down his slender sides as he did so. 

Sherlock sighed into his pillow as John took his time sucking a mark into the tiny dip of his back, making him squirm.

Finally, he moved lower and gripped two handfuls of his pale, plush, naked arse. Rubbing circles into them, he decided to try something new. He mouthed gently at the tip of his crack, then dipped an experimental tongue inside.

Sherlock gasped and writhed.

John smiled and buried his face in between his cheeks, poking at the tiny, red, puckered hole. Once his tongue was wriggled in as far as he could manage, he closed his mouth around it and gave it a loud, wet smooch.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, completely scandalized.

“Hmm . . . Turn over, love.” 

Sherlock flipped eagerly onto his back. In no time, John had swallowed half of him down, and began sucking hard. He looked up and watched as Sherlock moaned and arched back beautifully, displaying his whole body. Wrapping his tongue and around his cock, he lapped hungrily up and down. When Sherlock began squirming again, he closed his mouth around the tip and bobbed his head.

Sherlock was positively trembling beneath him. When John felt him pull back on his hair, he stopped and looked up at him in question.

"J-John. I n-need you. Inside me. Now,” he forced out.

John smiled devilishly and climbed back up his body on all fours, more than happy to comply. He dipped down and captured his waiting lips in a soft, caressing kiss. As he lapped into his mouth, he wormed his hand down between his legs.

Sherlock gasped and sighed into his mouth as he worked his spit slicked hole open. John kissed his eyes and nose lovingly before returning to his mouth, mumbling, “God, I love you so much.”

He swallowed Sherlock’s needy moan as he thrust his fingers into his prostate. “You gorgeous thing.”

He withdrew his hand and positioned himself at the widened opening. As he slid himself in, Sherlock sighed beautifully beneath him and fluttered his eyes shut. John surged forward and slotted their lips together once more, kissing him hungrily and rolling his hips.

Sherlock wrapped both his arms and legs around him, pulling him in tight. He tended to do that during sex. He seemed to desperately need John’s weight on top of him. They both got off on the intimacy of it.

John’s thrusts grew faster and needier. Sherlock’s moans grew louder and higher. They climaxed at the same time, pulling each other in for a searingly hot kiss. They caught their breath, pecking their lips together lazily.

“I love waking you up like this,” John mumbled into his mouth as he laced their fingers together.

“I know you do.”

They had many lazy mornings like that. John never would’ve thought Sherlock would be one to idly waste time in bed for hours without a reason, but he loved it. It gave them both a break. Time to just enjoy each other’s company without the stress of their daily lives hanging over their heads. It was just them in their own little world of Sherlock’s bedroom . . . well, their bedroom.

The cases they went on were spectacular as well. Or maybe it just seemed that way to John since everything was spectacular now that he was with Sherlock.

The first time they showed up to a crime scene holding hands, they received more than a few shocked stares from Greg Lestrade and Scotland Yard. “About time,” Sally had muttered under her breath. But since then, their excessive pet names, couplish squabbling, and cheek kisses have gone almost unnoticed by the team.

Mycroft, meanwhile, refused to visit Baker Street without calling in advance several times. Especially after walking in on them one afternoon, John in his chair, Sherlock in his lap, naked from the waist down.

“MYCROFT!” he had bellowed furiously, as he waddled over over to slam the door shut with his pants bunched at his ankles, tripping and falling on his face twice.

Similarly, Mrs. Hudson always shouted up a warming before coming up the stairs. She too had learned her lesson after walking in on them many times and in many various positions.

But she, Mycroft, and Scotland Yard were all joyously happy for them. And John and Sherlock knew it, no matter how they chose to show it.

After cases, they often came home and crashed in their chairs, listening to the crackling fireplace and drinking tea.

“You okay, love?” John asked one evening as he brought him his cuppa.

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock replied, clearly being pulled out of deep thought. “I was just revisiting some old cases.”

“Which one?” he asked, dropping into his chair. “The museum bomber? The school bus serial killer?”

“No.”

“That business thug, Mr. Ray?”

“No. But that was quite the case.”

“It was.” They smiled warmly at each other, remembering that this was the case that eventually pulled them together. All those parties, the dinners, the dancing . . .

“Say, weren’t there supposed to be three of those parties? We only went to two.”

“Oh, yes. But the host being arrested for multiple intentional manslaughters does put quite a damper on the mood. I assume it was canceled.”

John chuckled. “Bugger. Perhaps the last one would have been more enjoyable. Once we had gotten together and all.”

“Perhaps it would have been,” Sherlock said wistfully, his eyes fading out as he retreated back into his thoughts.

“Though I still believe I owe you a proper dance. One that I’ll complete to the end this time.”

His eyes snapped to him in question. John smiled and rose from his chair, walking across the floor to turn on their radio. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be silly, John. We’ll have plenty of opportunity to dance our hearts out at Julia and Stacey’s wedding next week.” 

John sighed impatiently. “Sherlock. I was trying to be romantic. You know, the fire, our living room, just us alone . . .”

“Oh.” He blushed slightly as realization dawned. “Carry on then.” 

Shaking his head, he tuned into a clear channel.

The beginning of ‘Lucky’ by Jason Mraz played into their living room. He made his way back to Sherlock, his heart filling with warmth at his shyness, and stuck his hand out in offering.

“Sherlock Holmes, will you dance with me?”

Sherlock blushed a deep crimson shade and accepted, allowing himself to be lifted and led to the center of their floor.

John took both of his hands in his and began swaying them back and forth playfully.

_'Do you hear me? I'm talking to you. Across the water across the deep blue ocean under the open sky. Oh my, baby I'm trying.'_

Sherlock couldn’t resist a bashful giggle slipping out of his mouth.

_'Boy, I hear you in my dreams, I feel your whisper across the sea. I keep you with me in my heart. You make it easier when life gets hard.'_

Giddy smiles grew and remained plastered onto both of their beaming faces as they danced in careless circles around the living room.

_'I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend._  
Lucky to have been where I have been.  
Lucky to be coming home again.' 

_'Oooohh ooooh ooooh ooooh ooh ooh.'_

Through the whole next verse, they took turns twirling each other, giggling like children, their eyes bright and twinkling. 

_'They don't know how long it take waiting for a love like this. Every time we say goodbye, I wish we had one more kiss. I'll wait for you, I promise you, I will.'_

They joined at the hands again, swaying gently.

_'I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend,_  
Lucky to have been where I have been,  
Lucky to be coming home again.' 

Sherlock laced their fingers together, squeezing softly.

_'Lucky we're in love in every way,_  
Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed,  
Lucky to be coming home someday.' 

Their form was sloppy and loose, unlike the previous dances they had shared, but it didn’t matter. Not to Sherlock, and not to John. Everything about this shared moment, alone in the comfort of their home with the fire blazing warmly, secure in the company of each other- it was just perfect.

_'And so I'm sailing through the sea to an island where we'll meet. You'll hear the music fill the air. I'll put a flower in your hair.'_

John tucked a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear.

_'Though the breezes, through the trees, move so pretty you're all I see. As the world keeps spinning round, you hold me right here right now.'_

_'I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend.'_

John beamed radiantly up at Sherlock.

_'Lucky to have been where I have been.'_

Sherlock lifted their joined hands to kiss his knuckles.

_'Lucky to be coming home again.'_

John moved in and hugged him around the waist, resting his head on his chest.

_'Lucky we're in love in every way.'_

Sherlock rested atop his head, wrapping his arms back around him.

_'Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed. Lucky to be coming home someday.'_

Together, they swayed absent-mindedly on the spot, wrapped in each other’s arms, eyes closed and smiling to themselves.

_'Oooh ooooh oooh oooh ooh ooh ooh ooh.'_

Sherlock tilted John’s chin up with his hand.

_'Ooooh ooooh oooh oooh ooh ooh ooh ooh.'_

John drew up on his tip-toes, throwing his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders as they shared a tender kiss.

_'Oohh oooh oooh.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again- for the full effect, listen to the song! It's one of the most johnlocky songs I've ever heard and I adore it
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for your lovely comments! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed working on it :)
> 
> If you want to follow me on tumblr, my url is the-sign-of-johnlock :)


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